Mea Culpa
by Whyte Star
Summary: An alternate ending to Sniper Zero. What if that bullet hadn't missed? COMPLETE.
1. Chapter I

As great an episode as _Sniper Zero_ was, it was considerably lacking in hurt Charlie. I was expecting (well, hoping) for some agony! Agony that resolves itself in a happy way, of course, but agony, angst, the whole kit and caboodle none the less! Sadly, there's only so much that can fit in one hour so I'm taking the liberty of taking a whack at fixing this problem myself. Hopefully I won't screw this up too badly.

And voila! Here is an alternate ending (a "what happened instead," if you will) to the episode _Sniper Zero._ Hurt and angst abounds! Slight warning for some language. Oh, and the number I give for the speed of sound is a broad estimate only.

This is only a short bit that I hastily churned out; more to come later. It's not all hurt Charlie story, I'll assure you that! I consider this somewhat of a first draft; after I complete it I will go back and re-edit each chapter to fix awkward grammar, gaps in continuity, and other silly things.

Edited 5-4-05 to change some quotes around. Thanks to Storyspindler for help with the Latin!

**Disclaimer: **The characters of _Numb3rs_ are property of the Scott brothers and the creative gem of Cheryl Heuton and Nick Falacci. No profit is being made from this story and no copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

_Et vobis, fratres,  
__Quia peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo et opere,  
Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.  
Ideo precor._

-

_And for this reason I beseech you, brothers,  
because by my thought, my word, and my work I have done wrong beyond measure,  
It is my fault, my fault, my greatest fault.  
__Thus I beg._

**MEA CULPA**

**CHAPTER I**

The unobstructed silence threw the echo of the loud ricochet back ten-fold from the hollow cavities between the buildings. The sound thus oddly distorted, it took Don Eppes several moments to comprehend the chain of events. Something in his gut suddenly screamed. _Charlie._ His eyes locked on the wayward mathematician meandering before of a cluster of police cars, absorbed in an equation on the clipboard at his arm. Completely oblivious. Don's stomach lurched. He had no time but to consider the worst case scenario. With his father's words ringing in his ears he called out desperately to his brother, attempting to close the space between them with a Herculean effort.

He knew from the moment his feet hit the pavement he could not reach him. Every bone in his body turned to liquid as he watched David and his brother fall together amid a shower of shattered glass.

A gunshot. The sound was all too familiar to him now. Charlie had decided that it was nothing like the sounds in the movies, but something quite distant, almost innocent. When he heard the sound again it barely registered in his already inundated mind and for a moment he had to check himself, questioning whether or not he had heard the sound with a raised eyebrow.

340.29 meters per second.

Until he suddenly felt a great and unstoppable force throw him nearly to the ground he was almost certain it was all a figment of his imagination.

Compared to that bullet, the sound traveled so slow.

* * *

Cement. So close he could see the tiny pores, smell the distinct odor of fresh concrete.

He didn't hear the bullet. He didn't feel the pain.

David's knee pushed hard against his back and instinctively Charlie gasped for breath. It took him several minutes to comprehend that the cause of his distress was not the other man's weight. This weight came from _inside; _a great pressure anchored in his shoulder and weaving across his back. But there was no pain. Shaking the cobwebs from his vision Charlie pushed himself to his knees. Completely oblivious.

"Charlie!"

Strange; just like that gunshot, Don's voice felt so distant.

Only when his brother's body slammed into him did Charlie suddenly feel the pain. His natural painkillers expended, the white-hot agony hit him with full force and he recoiled from his brother's very touch. Don's already frayed nerves nearly severed from his body completely as he felt the tremble in the form beneath him. Even his years of training could not tame the raw and almost primal emotion that surged through him. Nine bodies. Nine had been too many. He would not—could not—let Charlie be the tenth. Not here, not now.

He heard his father's voice.

_Damnit. _For the thought. For the deep stain of scarlet staining his brother's dark shirt. For the sniper now dead in the window. For the high-powered rifle now lying uselessly by his body. For the dozens of police cars. For the dozens of men that let this happen. For himself.

Charlie could feel the blood now, hot and sticky against his back; its copper-like smell was nearly overpowering. Slowly his thoughts slipped away from him as the world became edged in gray. Pain. Bullet. Blood. Sniper. Equation. _Don._ They had all merged together into a large and discombobulated mess of incoherent thought.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Don was so absorbed in his self-deprecation he barely heard his brother mumbling to him, one hand clutched tightly at the open front of Don's jacket.

"I'm sorry."

_To Be Continued._


	2. Chapter II

Thank you so much, everyone, for the reviews! My goodness, I never expected such a response for all of 700 words! I'm especially grateful to those of you that brought up the point of view … that was something that slipped past myself and my beta. I agree there are some things I can do to change it and rest assured, whenever I get a good chunk of time (i.e. sometime in the next thousand years) I'll be sure to change that. Looking over the first little section it's blatantly obvious how quickly it was written. It had to come out, though!

I promised this will not be an entirely hurt Charlie story and I aim to please! The way I have it planned out right now, David will be playing a major part in later chapters. He only has a short blurb of a paragraph here, but keep an eye peeled for him later on!

The italicized quotes can be taken as thoughts or what have you. I took them straight from the episode so they should sound familiar.

**CHAPTER TWO**

In thirty freakish seconds Don Eppes was left in his own hellish world, one where his little brother, the one he was supposed to protect, bled profusely in his outstretched arms. Voices and motion fused together into nonsense, swirling away into the depths of his unconscious. Light and solid matter coalesced and became an opaque tunnel of black matter, engulfing him. He could see nothing but Charlie, head turned slightly to one side, eyes pinched shut in silent agony. He could hear nothing but his brother's occasional ragged breaths through his slightly parted lips, uneven and weak. He could feel nothing but his brother's gentle weight pressing hard against his legs and his heart.

Had he not been so focused on Charlie's every iota, Don would have doubted it to be physically possible for another human being to feel worse than how he did now.

"_We've got an agent on him all the time."_

Dozens of agents and not one of them could stop this. Don could barely comprehend David kneeling next to him, silent and staring. The other agent grappled with thick and ominous demons of his own that weighed heavy on his heart: disappointment, anger, regret. If only he had stayed that much closer. If only he had run that much faster. If only … his heart throbbed. Suddenly he couldn't stand to look at Don. At Charlie. And so David Sinclair, for the first time in an innumerable amount of years, turned his back on a crime scene and slowly walked away to the refuge of the police cars behind him.

Seven calls went in at once for a medical team but not even all the police power in the city could help them arrive faster. To Don, every second they were absent was another ounce of his brother's lifeblood rolling down his already saturated shirt to the cement below, another second of his life running short.

"_I'm there for him."_

But he wasn't. With a bitter gall rising in his throat Don admitted it wholeheartedly. It wasn't David's fault for bringing him here, or Edgerton's fault for his persuasive point of view. It was_ his_ and his alone. He had not run fast enough. Had not yelled loud enough. Had not warned him. Had not stopped him. Stopped him from wanting to shoot that rifle …

That rifle. Instantly Don realized his foolishness. Guns did n_ot_ only shoot paper targets. It was different with a real person. Paper targets did not bleed like _this…_

"Damnit, Charlie."

Blood. There was so much of it. If a person lost too much it was instant death, that Don knew, and the amount pooling from his brother's body was downright horrifying. It stained Charlie both back and front, confirming Don's fear: a through-and-through. A gaping hole in his brother's body created by a screaming metal projectile most likely deep in the police car's upholstery by now. Two wounds, twice the blood. Screaming inside, Don commanded in vain for his body to do something. But he couldn't stop staring at Charlie, motionless and nearly silent, his skin deathly pale against the blood's bright vermillion coating. It seemed Don's arms were frozen, cemented tightly around his younger brother's shoulders in a protective embrace; though protecting him from what he did not know and, when asked three hours later, would not remember.

_Damnit Don,_ he screamed inwardly. _Pull yourself together. Stop the bleeding, Don. Charlie, don't you die on me …_

"ETA on that ambulance is three minutes, Don," Terry offered from a few feet behind. But even if she had been using a bullhorn three inches from Don's ear he would not have heard her.

Suddenly an officer crouched close to Don, holding out a thick cotton sweatshirt.

"Here," he offered almost soundlessly, articulating in this one gesture all those Don could not bring himself to do. For a moment all Don could do was stare; his arms felt they weighed more than twenty tons. But a slight moan and writhe from the figure in his lap spurred him into action instantly. He snatched the sweatshirt away and, hesitating briefly, brought it down with shaking hands on the closest of Charlie's wounds.

This catapulted Charlie from his state of semi-consciousness into the grips of the hellish agony that had left him moments before. He turned away as if from a bright light, fighting madly against Don's grip, gasping for the breath his wound was denying him.

"D—Don't," the only syllable he could manage, barely audible. A pale hand ventured toward the offending object, the fingers prying at it weakly.

"Shhh… Charlie, C-Charlie, stop that."

Charlie turned his head toward the voice, forcing his eyes open a slit to examine his brother's face.

"D-Don?"

"Yeah, buddy," Don had to pause, swallowing deep to steady himself. "I'm here."

"…Hurts."

Don looked down; already the blood was seeping through the thick sweatshirt, inching toward his hand.

"I know. I'm sorry, Charlie."

"_We're just gonna make sure he doesn't shoot anyone else, that's for sure."_

Red and blue lights suddenly poured over Don's shoulder, illuminating the area with their frantic dance. Don did not even raise his eyes as paramedics surrounded him, gently lifting his burden away. Silently Don struggled to his feet to follow and instantly regretted it for the terrible sight that flooded his vision. It was something that would forever brand itself on his closed eyelids, haunting him. Pools. Not mere drops, but pools of blood, smooth as crimson glass. Charlie's blood. On the cement. Don't pants were heavily saturated with it. Everywhere. Wherever he looked it glared back at him, a scene from a horror movie gone terribly wrong. For the first time since his mother's death, Don felt his knees go completely weak.

"Easy, Don," Terry easily shouldered Don's weight as the elder Eppes brother all but collapsed into her.

"Terry." If all of a man's agony could be personified in one word, it was her name. The sound nearly made her recoil in a mix of terror and empathy.

"Don, I …" she stopped; her mind at a total loss.

Suddenly Don pushed away from her. His eyes sought the paramedics working furiously around his brother only a few yards away. Though his limbs felt a thousand pounds heavier from a strange mental torture he forced himself to run; every footfall felt as if it shattered his body in a thousand pieces. Without hesitation he climbed into the ambulance and slid to his brother's side. When one of the men inside questioned him in protest Don merely held up an arm, the other finding Charlie's hand and holding it tight.

"_You really think I would put Charlie in danger?"_

"Don't worry, Charlie. I'm here for you."

The EMT needed no other omission. Shutting the door tight, the ambulance took off in a fury, throwing its red and blue lights dancing against the sky.


	3. Chapter III

This next chapter will be the last for awhile, I'm sorry to say. I'll be out of town next week and soon after that is my high school graduation! I'll try and see if I can squeak in a chapter between coming home from the trip and graduation (about a week and half worth of time) but all the fun stuff is happening around that time—party hardy, you know? Anyway, rest assured that I won't let this story die—in fact, I'm growing quite attached to it.

I also have to research Charlie's injuries and medical care in great detail; I don't want to just fluff my way through that part! If anyone out there knows _anything_ about gunshot injuries and surgery—especially those to the shoulder, please don't hesitate to e-mail me. I don't want to spoil too much but what I have (I hope) won't be too difficult to figure out.

I'm a little unsure as to whether I like how Don turned out in this chapter, especially in the middle… I think I might have taken his response to what happened a bit too far in places…

Some spoilers for The Pilot, and I imagine some others I let slip. And as always, enjoy!

Note: Many, MANY thanks to Afton (my lovely beta) and WynterSnow for finding my little mistake! This chapter has been edited to fix it … sorry 'bout that! I've fixed it as best I could for now … when another rewrite comes around, I'll incorporate it in a better way.

**CHAPTER III**

The smell of hospitals, of antiseptic and mind-numbing cleanliness, never once bothered Don. Or perhaps he just failed to notice. His sense of smell, like many of his senses and emotions, had been numbed by his time in the FBI. In such a stressful and high-risk business there was no room for pain and fear, anger and hate. He had grown accustomed to the thick moments of tension, the unpredictability, the sound of a gunshot, the recoil of a gun …

_Damn._ He bit down hard on his tongue, forcing himself to keep the curse silent. _Gun._ Don wondered if he would ever be able to think of that word in the same context again.

Huddled in the corner of the ambulance, Don felt a strange sensation akin to claustrophobia. His chest, tight and heavy, made steady breathing nearly impossible. Little could he comprehend at that moment that his was an illness of a different kind—that the tight space of the ambulance was not his source of discomfort, but rather, the close confines of something else … something much darker and much stronger.

The EMT in the cabin with him worked swiftly and diligently, his back to Don, as focused on Charlie as the elder Eppes brother had been minutes before. … Minutes? Had a really only been minutes? Five, ten, fifteen? Physically Don felt as if he had been treading deep water for hours on end. Mentally, time had become like elastic; moments of sheer terror intertwined with confounded periods of slow-motion.

Charlie hadn't moved. Don assumed he was unconscious but hadn't the voice to call out to him. The EMT had long since thrust Don away, ripping the brothers' hands apart, destroying the one link Don had to his brother, his current of strength and hope. Don felt unequivocally alone, though Charlie was no more than two feet from him.

"_He's a grown man."_

No, he wasn't. Grown men didn't bleed like this. Grown men didn't lie dying in their brother's arms. Grown men like Charlie worked complex math equations Don could never in a lifetime comprehend. Grown men stayed alive.

The EMT slipped the slender IV needle into the nearly translucent skin on Charlie's left hand. Don watched the younger man inadvertently jerk his head, his eyelids cracking for a fraction of a second to reveal the whites of his eyes before his body settled limp again. _He was still alive, at least._ Don released a breath he didn't know he had been holding.

Gauze and sterile rags had been stuffed into Charlie's wounds, trying to suppress the bleeding; but there was so much of it, Don could hardly fathom it all…

Charlie did not believe in guns; Don could vaguely remember hearing that somewhere. A gun no more belonged in Charlie's hand than a piece of chalk belonged in Don's. Both brothers had their own distinct worlds; Charlie his numbers, Don his criminals. Up until Charlie had discovered that case file those worlds remained parallel, never crossing paths, the way they were _supposed_ to be. Charlie did not belong in his brother's world; Don knew he should have realized it from the beginning, but his own foolishness—or was it his pride?— blinded him.

At that moment, Don could have destroyed every sprinkler head in Los Angeles.

"_You don't have to prove yourself to anyone."_

Why had he come? It was a question pricking continually at Don's mind. A serial sniper on the loose and Charlie decided to stroll deep in thought, fully exposed to every danger, at an active crime scene. What was he thinking? Geniuses never had such blatant lapses of thought … ? Suddenly Charlie was vulnerable in Don's eyes; a young man struggling to prove himself to his older brother, to his brother's world.

"_Charlie can never say no to you."_

_He_ had done it; and done it all. He had allowed Charlie to consult on that first case, he had brought his brother out into the field, he had taught him to shoot the rifle, he had let him meander in the sniper's crosshairs; again the guilt riddled his mind. His father was right—Charlie would throw himself through fire to solve his equations, find that last variable. Where numbers were concerned all of nature's borders disintegrated: had the world spun wildly off its axis Charlie would work oblivious to it all. Helping his brother was something Charlie could not ignore and would not fail at, no matter what the cost.

A subtle jerk threw Don forward several inches and before he could even steady himself bright afternoon sunlight poured through the now open ambulance doors. His arms went out to his brother only to find the gurney already unloaded, surrounded by medical personnel. Their connection wavered. Don threw himself from the vehicle, his knees nearly collapsing beneath him.

Feet moved rapidly. Bodies became one continual swash of color. Hands exchanged bags of fluid, bloody rags. Voices carried through the air, disjointed. Doors shot open. White coats flashed for a moment and slipped inside. Don could barely bid his eyes focus in the chaos before his brother was gone. Their link was broken. The feeling of Charlie's hand in his turned cold. Darkness crept in on the edges of Don's eyes.

Tunnel vision. One thing his FBI training had supposedly effaced; he could remain calm and imperturbable in even the direst of situations … but, then again, a mortally wounded Charlie had not been included in his training. The thought of someone taking aim at Charlie was a thought that never once crossed his mind; it was nearly inconceivable. Don knew that nothing in the world could have prepared him for something like this.

His body slammed into the door with the weight of all his turbulent emotions. At that same moment he espied his brother's gurney vanish down a long hall, the word 'Emergency' glaring at him in towering red letters from above it. Don felt his heart sink. There was nothing he could do now. Halfheartedly he made his way toward the hallway, dragging his legs as if walking through deep water. His body was exhausted, mentally and physically. A million thoughts, none of them remotely coherent, bombarded against one another in his mind. Adrenaline made his body shake. Charlie …

Blood. A sniper's bullet. A sparkle of shattered glass. The bitter crack of a rifle shot. The far and distant echo of his voice through the canyon of buildings.

_Charlie._ Don could not stop, could not think. The terror of the last half hour had consumed him and would not release its hold. This was not a childhood scuffle, to be fixed with a simple bandage and a kiss from his mother. For the first time, Don realized in vivid detail that the little brother he had just seen vanish down that hall he might never see alive again—and that, above all else, terrified him.

"Don." Terry's hand fell lightly against his arm. _Terry?_ Where had she come from? Had she been there all along …?

"Y-You can't go back there, Don."

The older agent let his eyes fall to the floor. A thick yellow line snaked across the floor, a diligent barrier between one world and the next. Between himself and Charlie. Between life and death.

"… Terry." He barely had the strength to finish the simple syllable.

"Don, I—I think you should go … get your father." Her eyes shifted uneasily, "he … needs to be here."

"My father?" The two words became Don's tipping point. His father … how could he face his father after a debacle like this? His blatant disregard for his brother's own safety … Alan would never forgive him…

"_Do me a favor and not say a word to dad. The guy already thinks I'm gonna wind up getting you killed."_

"Oh, God, Terry."

"Don."

"Damn it, Terry!" Two opposing forces, agony and anger, slowly ripped the elder agent apart.

"Don …" heavy silence surrounded them as Terry fought for words to say. "Do it … for Charlie?"

They weren't the most comforting of words, but that was all her befuddled heart could manage at that moment.

Don slowly looked over his shoulder and down the endless hall. His body heaved with a sigh from deep in his body, his very soul.

"For Charlie … Charlie … would have wanted that."

Terry felt her insides crumble. Years of criminal psychology told her volumes when someone—criminal or otherwise—spoke in the past tense. To Don, Charlie was already too far gone … it was not a good sign.

"Yeah, Don … for Charlie."

A heavy, heart-wrenching sigh.

"David'll stay here, okay?" she continued. "He—He'll let us know as soon as anything happens. But—you have to be with your father, Don. You need him right now. It won't take long…you can bring him here…"

Terry tugged lightly on Don's arm, pulling him away from the yellow line, the hallway. Inching toward the door they passed by David, his eyes downcast, shoulders slumped. The other agent was in no better shape than Don was, consumed by his guilt. Being there for Don—and for Charlie—was the only thing on his mind right now; he would never forgive himself if Charlie did not emerge from that hallway alive.

As they reached the door Terry herded Don to the left where their SUV sat empty, looming. A hearse, that was what Don decided it resembled, staring at it aimlessly with half-focused eyes. Approaching it his heart fell and shattered at his feet. He was going to have to tell _his father …_

* * *

Never before had Don even considered hating that beautiful house … but he did now. He hated it for the memories. For the man that should have been safely inside it, not lying cold on a gurney. He hated it for the father he would have to tell: _"I'm sorry dad, I should have listened to you. Charlie's dead, and I killed him."_

The ride in the SUV—the longest trip of his life—had forced Don to endure the everlasting horror of that day: Charlie's blood, a great saturation by now dried brown around the edges, burning oblong stains across the denim. They became a painful brand against the underside of his eyelids, haunting him even in that blackness. There were stains there that would never be removed …

Terry didn't pull into the driveway but left the SUV idling by the curb. Don sat in contemplative silence for several moments and when he dragged himself from the car Terry made no inkling to follow; Don needed his father more than he needed his partner looming over his shoulder.

Walking up that driveway everything became deadly silent. All of nature seemed to refrain from movement, becoming statuesque and tense, quiet and somber. Seeing the hot red stains with every blink of his eye, Don clumsily shed his jacket and, wrapping it once around his arm, held it low by his belt, blotting the horrific crimson stamp from his sight—yet not from his mind. With every movement of his legs Don could feel the blood, by now a cold dampness against his skin. It made a shiver course like electricity through his body.

Crossing through the front door, Don became much like the little kid that had just broken a window with a stray fly ball and was waiting, as per the cliché, for his father to come home. It was just like he was thirteen again; only today he wasn't the clumsy teenager that had broken a mere pane of glass. No, something far greater and far more precious lay in pieces that day.

But inside the house was empty and Don wandered aimlessly, one empty shell within another.

Crossing towards the kitchen he felt a cold draft blow gently against his bare arms. Looking up, he spied the back door ajar. He silently screamed at his legs to stop—but just like every other action, his mind had no control. Stepping over the threshold, Don discovered Alan at the top of a ladder, focused intently on the brush in his hand.

For a minute Don stood and watched in silence. His father looked at peace, fixing up his beautiful house, content in a world that was nearly perfect. A shame that by speaking just a few fragments of sentences Don would shatter that peace forever.

"_You really think I would put Charlie in danger?"_

" … Dad." Even with all of his breath, the call was no more than a whisper.

Alan jerked up from his work, turning to face his son. "Donny! You're off work early, I see?"

"Dad … g-get down off that ladder…okay?"

The eldest Eppes glanced up from his work. "Huh? Why, Donny?"

"I … I just … I want you to be down here…when you hear this."

Seeing the genuine look of terror that had seized his son's features, Alan abandoned his post on the ladder without a second thought. Approaching his son and placing a hand on each shoulder, he looked deep in Don's agonized eyes.

"What is it, Don?"

"Look … I … I was thinking about…" Don paused, his mind riddled with agony. "About … what you said when you came by for lunch …"

Alan could sense it. Don did not even have to continue speaking, his face told more of a tale than words ever could. The Eppes patriarch felt his heart flip and sink. Inwardly he prayed that, just this once, his parental instincts were wrong.

"I—I think … I think you're right."

_To Be Continued._


	4. Chapter IV

Wow, nearly a month without an update! I can't even being to express how sorry I am, and I hope none of you have given up on this story yet! The weeks following graduation were fraught with parties, family drama, and—worst of all—writer's block. Ask just about anyone—writing the scene between Alan and Don that appears at the beginning of this chapter was, for some reason, so incredibly hard that I gave up on it several times. In the end I must thank: Afton, BeckyS, Storyspindler, and Xanthia Morgan for all of their help providing me with insight and inspiration. It's a long time coming, but I'm finally happy with that scene!

As for the medical information that appears in this chapter and the ones following it: all of the credit for that goes to Storyspindler and Luvspook. Storyspindler has devoted hours—I'm not kidding—to research and answering my questions. Without these two, this story simply would not be.

Finally, eternal thanks for all of you who have left such wonderful reviews! Your input has helped greatly in the development of this story. Again, sorry for the wait, and enjoy!

**CHAPTER IV**

Silence. A complete absence of sound so heavy and, oddly, so loud, Don feared his ears would explode from the weight. Just inches away his father watched him stiffly, a haze of abject horror smeared across his features, as still and as silent as the air around him. For a moment, Don feared his father had stopped breathing.

"Don, no …" Alan fought a shaking breath. "W-What happened, Donny?"

Don swallowed hard. The lump would not stop rising in his throat; his head would not stop throbbing; the world would not stop wavering through a misty haze before his eyes. The one phrase he never should have to tell his father—that _no son_ should have to tell his own father—burned hotly on the back of his tongue. When he tried to articulate the words they came as a muddled mess drowned in undertones of his innermost agony.

"I let … the--the sniper got him, dad."

The words ricocheted around Alan's unconscious for several seconds. He could not believe it. _Would not._

"_What?"_

Not Charlie. Not his son.

"Charlie's been—_sh-shot?"_ A father's desperation consolidated in three words, Alan's heart nearly ripped from his very chest upon speaking them.

"Don—no. _Shot?_ No, Donny! No!"

Don would never let that happen.

"I—it just happened so fast, Dad … I-I don't even know what he was doing there! Dad, I—"

A hand. It came hard and fast. His father's fingers closed fiercely on Don's shoulder, gripping his very heart in tendrils of agony … and of anger.

"I said it," ire burned molten in Alan's eyes but his broken and languid tone belied his raw emotions. "I said it, Donny! Why—How—my son … Donny, how … could you …?"

Rage, burning white-hot in his chest, searing his mind with horrific images. Charlie was not a police officer. He did not belong among guns. Bullet proof vests. Helmets. Adversaries. Never; not for Charlie. Those were not the staple of the halls of academia. CalSci. Chalk. Lectures. Complex equations. That was where Charlie belonged, among his chalkboards and numbers. But now his son was gravely injured in a line of duty that was not even his own? How such an event could even be possible seemed simply inconceivable.

Suddenly a feeling that was not quite anger yet more of trepidation coursed through Alan's body. Forcing his tongue to for the words to a question he did not want answered, he hesitated to glance into Don's downcast eyes.

"… How bad is it, son?"

If the horrid sound of anguished regret that slipped from between Don's lips was not enough of a resignation, the turbulent expression on his face spoke volumes. Alan felt fingers of ice sinisterly grip his heart. This was not Don, the stoic FBI agent; this was Don, a broken man—Don, his son. For the first time in many years, Alan Eppes took his eldest son in his arms and held him close. It was all he could do; for Don, for Charlie, and for himself.

Don's entire body quivered with emotions Alan couldn't hope to calculate: fear, agony, self-loathing.

"He … he…" Don couldn't force himself past the first syllable. Defeated, Don's head hung nearly off his shoulders. As if baring his soul to the world, Don stepped back from his father and let his arms fall to his sides; the jacket slipped from his arms and spiraled to the ground, landing with absolutely no sound.

"I couldn't stop it, dad…" the words came with a gradual and breathless decrescendo.

Alan's eyes were being pulled, lured toward something he knew he should not see. Glancing down, he wished no less than to tear out his own eyes at the horror that greeted him there. So thick it could have been paint, blood—Charlie's blood; his _son's_ blood—coated Don's jeans from his knees to his belt. By now a rust-colored and crusted mess, in Alan's eyes it was as bright a red as it had been hours before. So bright; almost on fire. Burning, searing, paining. Branded on the underside of his eyelids, a crimson and iridescent hallucination.

Utterly broadsided by the revelation and its subsequent cyclone of afterthought Alan's breath left him as if being forced out by a great weight. Vision dancing, he stumbled to lean against the hard brick wall of the house, clasping his hands over his eyes, willing in vain for the horrific image to melt away, to be effaced from his mind forever.

"D-Don," muffled by his hands and weighed down by inner turmoil Alan fought to keep his voice from shaking for the sake of his son's sanity. "Donny—I—no. I-It can't be, Donny, please."

Don bit his tongue, turning his head as far away from his father's gaze as possible.

"I—I'm sorry, Dad," his voice as distant as his heart felt at that moment.

Alan leaned his head back against the cool brick and sighed, his mind and body completely weighed down by the news. He swore to her, and to himself, that Charlie would always be safe…

Pushing himself off the wall and wrapping an arm around his son's shoulders, Alan mentally extended the comfort his eldest son was so desperately seeking.

"Take me to him, Don… let's go see him."

* * *

When both Eppes men climbed into the SUV Terry dared not speak. Her eyes fixed on the road, she knew better than to try and penetrate the fragile emotional walls both men had tried to build around themselves. Slipping the SUV silently into gear she pulled away from the house, writhing under the immense pressure of the Eppes men's silence.

But a piercing shriek soon shattered that silence. Don's entire body twitched, recoiling from the sound. He thought at first of ignoring the number, being of no mind for FBI chatter, until he saw the number plastered on the luminous screen: David. Sputtering and nearly dropping the phone from numb hands, Don finally managed to open the faceplate after what seemed an eternity and slammed it to his ear with a shaking hand.

"Eppes … David?"

At first, silence. Then, as if from a great distance: "Don?"

"… David, talk to me. Speak up—w-what's happening?"

The younger man audibly hesitated. "Y-You—you better get down here quick, Don…"

The bitter taste of bile seeped into Don's throat. Swallowing hard, he could barely articulate the phrase: "D-David … no, no…"

The younger agent's voice cracked, strained by unfathomable forces. "He's ... it's not going well, Don. Y-You—you need … to get here…"

Abruptly, the line disconnected. Don's arm fell heavy to his lap; the phone slipped to the floor from nerveless fingers.

"… Don?"

"Terry. Turn on the lights."

"Don, what's—"

"Turn on the damn lights, Terry!"

Shuddering from the mere tone of his voice—of its pure and tragic agony—Terry flipped the switch and the SUV's lights ignited. Lurching forward as she floored the accelerator, the SUV hurtled toward the hospital, the screaming siren its only means of safe passage.

* * *

Hours. Don was not sure if the sun was still up, had set, or had risen again. It could have been one hour; it could have been a day or more. In a fury Don paced the waiting room, head bent low, arms folded across his chest. Inwardly he berated himself for his foolishness, his blindness, his incompetence.

It had been too long. Too long that he had let Charlie wander the city with a sniper on the loose. Too long that he had struggled to stop that deadly sniper. Too long that he had taken to run to his brother's side. Too long that he had waited to stop the bleeding. Too long that Charlie had been in surgery. Too long.

Alan sat in a chair nearby, head resting on his steepled arms. He was tired; exhausted both mentally and physically. Why was he here? After his wife had fallen ill he imagined he would never have to see the inside of a hospital until the end of his life—and certainly, not the end of one of his sons. In his heart he knew—or, at least, prayed that he knew—that Charlie would pull through. That this was all as innocuous as a dream, that in the morning Alan would open his eyes and it would all gone, lost to the recesses of his mind.

The soft click of the waiting room door and the appearance of a middle-aged man in hospital scrubs assured Alan that this, in fact, was no dream. Driven by an almost ethereal force Alan heaved himself to his feet, his heart at his throat. Don stopped pacing mid-stride and watched the newcomer with an apprehensive glare.

"Eppes family?" His voice, though sounding somewhat weathered, rang clear and strong. "I'm Doctor Meisner. We've just concluded surgery on your son to repair damage from a gunshot wound to his left shoulder."

The statement lit a fire deep within Alan and his paternal instincts came forward with full force. "How is he? Where is he? I want to see him."

Meisner simply continued his explanation unabashed. "As the bullet passed through his body, it unfortunately nicked both a major vein and artery." His eyes caught sight of Don's soiled clothing. "This would explain his blood loss and the bulk of his trauma. We were able to repair the damage to both the vein and artery and the surrounding area—there were some minor complications during surgery, but he was able to pull through. It is likely that your son will have to undergo extensive physical therapy to regain full use of his arm again. We won't know to what extent, however, until he wakes up."

Taking a brief moment to soak in the information, Alan reiterated: "I want to see him." Don's gaze remained locked on the doctor, his face pale, his expression twisted into one of absolute shock and horror.

"I'm afraid he's still in recovery, Mr. Eppes. After a few hours we'll move him to the ICU. You'll be able to see him then. But I have to warn you—due to the severity of his chest wound we had to put your son on a respirator. Until his vital signs improve and remain stable, we're going to keep him in a drug-induced coma so that he does not try and fight it."

Don suddenly felt sick. He turned his back on the doctor, his head resting in the palm of his hand. Alan kept Meisner under his meticulous gaze, taking in every phrase as if it was his son's last will and testament—which he hoped and prayed it was not.

"How long, doctor?" It was a phrase spoken in defeat.

"A few hours, at the very most. You can wait here or we—"

"I'm staying here, Doctor Meisner." Despite his broken tone Alan's voice was solid. "I _will not_ leave my son."

The doctor's own tone suddenly shifted from a detached reporter to an empathetic confidant. "I understand. And Mr. Eppes, if I may say … your son was incredibly lucky. Any higher, the bullet would have severed the artery completely and he would have bled out within minutes. Any farther to the left and it could have stuck a lung or—even worse—his heart. Someone was watching out for your son that day—you have much to be thankful for."

A bitter gall rose in Don's throat at that statement. Closing his eyes out of spite, he watched the same bloody scene play over and over in his mind.

_To Be Continued._


	5. Chapter V

Mea Culpa broke 100 reviews a few days ago and it came as a total shock. I never imagined this story would take off like it has! Thanks a million to everyone who has stuck with this story despite my taking a month to update between chapters. Your input makes it all worthwhile.

Storyspindler gets all the credit for the medical info. And for reference, a pusleoxymeter is a machine that measures heart rate, respiratory rate, and oxygen saturation of the blood. You might recognize it as the little clamp that goes on the finger and the leads that go on the chest. She and I didn't just pull that machine out of nowhere!

As always, enjoy!

Updated 6/27 with a second beta and a few small revisions.

**CHAPTER V**

Sitting alone on a bench that faced the merciless rays of the dying sunset, David Sinclair looked oddly small against the massive backdrop of the hospital's pale brick walls. Terry had barely noticed him, bent nearly double, elbows on his knees and head buried in his hands. He looked broken, anguished. Instinctively Terry knew that the short hour the agent had spent in that hospital had forever changed him.

Taking a place beside David on the bench, Terry sat in patient silence, waiting for him to acknowledge her presence, but Agent Sinclair was far too absorbed in his own thoughts to notice.

"David?" she all but whispered after several moments. Again, not even a hint of recognition.

"David!" she reiterated, louder, reaching out to touch his drooping shoulder.

Instinct threw Terry's arm back against the wall as David nearly jumped out of his very skin, his back erect in moments, eyes circling wildly, resembling more of a frightened animal than Terry wanted to admit.

Dragging his hands down his exasperated face, David drew in a ragged breath before attempting to speak.

"Terry."

"You okay?" she offered.

David scoffed, a sound halfway between an anguished groan and an expletive.

The expression on Don's face as he entered the hospital was one that, though he longed to, David would not soon forget. Never before—no matter how harrowing the circumstances—had David ever seen Don truly afraid. The older agent, seasoned by years of training, hid his emotions to the point where he barely even flinched. That was the Don that David had grown so accustomed to, the solid pillar of a man. Not the Don he saw at that moment, with his darkened eyes and a face as pale as chalk. Agony and despair; David saw true fear on Don's face in that moment—and it frightened him.

Wandering eyes found Terry's face for a moment, exchanging an anguished look before returning to their downward gaze. David dipped his chin nearly to his chest, examining the palms of his hands with unblinking eyes. His hand. To think hours before he had touched his hand to Charlie's back and into a thick layer of blood; felt the trembling of a body in pain.

"You shouldn't be asking me that," he spat, his tone terse and bitter.

"David… you know, it's always hard when a member of the team goes down."

David was all but seething. "He's not a member of the team, Terry. He never should have been there."

"You had no way of knowing what would happen. There was nothing you could have done."

"Hell, Terry, you think I don't know that?"

"You still feel guilty about it."

"Don't you think I have a right to?" David tore his eyes from his hands to glance at Terry again, this time with bitter air.

"… Charlie's been working out in the field with us a lot lately." Even to Terry's own ears, the comment sounded weightless.

"It was … damn, Terry, it was such a … a stupid mistake!" David threw out his hands, opening a floodgate of raw emotion. "Why did I bring him there? I … I was stupid, Terry! Stupid!" A prolonged sigh. "A _rookie _mistake."

"David…"

"I should have known better."

Never had David felt so small. An inexplicable feeling that all of his emotions had suddenly grown a dozen times more powerful than his body could handle overwhelmed him. Frantically his mind scanned past events of his career in Los Angeles like a film strip. A thin line of discolored skin, a scar from the knife he fought against his very first day on the job, now burned his eyes, mocked him. The shooting at the bank with the Charm School Boys had happened less than a year before and he often found himself forgetting the unfortunate agent who had lost his life that day. But David doubted he would ever efface the sight of Charlie's body under his, bleeding profusely, body jerking with involuntary spasms of pain …

"… _It's a danger we've already assimilated into our daily lives."_

The bitter taste of retrospect, nearly unbearable, assaulted David's senses. Charlie was not an agent, but the young man had woven his path in and out of the FBI office so often it was hard to remember that he wasn't. David readily assumed that Charlie was as aware of—or _immune to_—the danger as Don was prepared to deal with it. _He didn't think._ He should have known that the sniper was in the building, he should have kept Charlie in the car… _should have. _

"_A sniper is something new. It's random, malicious."_

"He'll live, David. Don't worry."

"That's not the point, Terry."

"Don't be so bitter—"

"Bitter! Terry, how would you react? Huh? He wasn't just another consultant, Terry. He was …" he paused, searching his tortured brain for an adjective to suit his needs.

"A friend?"

David's head jerked up. He turned to Terry for a brief moment, grateful for her presence, her solace.

"Yeah."

Terry couldn't help but smile. Just minutes before she would have doubted the validity of her earlier statements, but now she repeated them with no hesitation, no doubt.

"Everything will be all right, David."

"_A bullet that can come from anywhere, take anyone, you know?"_

Her hand sought his forearm, a gentle gesture of support and unyielding friendship. They remained there for several minutes, frozen as one shadow against the red brick wall.

"David," Terry began softly, "we should get back to the office. There's … nothing more we can do here."

She watched the other agent rise slowly, shedding in the process a great weight. "Just leave?"

"Yeah. Don doesn't need us here."

"_Everything will be all right."_ The phrase repeated over and over in David's head as the hospital shrank into the distance at his back.

* * *

Don came and went from his father's field of vision in a flurry again. The older man had given up counting hours ago how many times it had been. Pacing. It was something both his sons did almost subconsciously. But Don's pacing at that moment was far beyond the almost gentle hither and thither movements Charlie would make while engrossed in an equation. This was pacing of an angry sort; the nervous footfalls of a brother trapped on the cusp of mental collapse.

Alan was worried. Not only for Charlie, but for Don. He did not want to admit it, but he was on the verge of losing two sons that night. And he swore by everything he knew that he would not let that happen.

"Donny…" he began, but the introductory music to the nightly news interrupted his thoughts. Suddenly the headline _Another Sniper Shooting_ glared at him from the television set. Don saw it too and stopped mid-stride, his face contorted into a horrific expression. The sudden realization that all of Los Angeles was now aware of his mistake crushed him. Foolish; that was all he was. _A fool._

'_Fear grips downtown LA again tonight as yet another victim was hit with apparent sniper fire earlier this afternoon. Police have not yet released the man's identity but say he is currently in critical condition. The FBI insists—'_

Alan grabbed the remote from the table beside his chair and jammed the power button. Don whirled to face him, torrid fire in his eyes.

"Don, you don't need to see that," Alan whispered. "I don't want some news report to tell me about my son."

Don stood unblinking, unmoving, his mouth slightly open, frozen while trying to form words to a sentence his mind could not conjure. He stared not at his father but seemingly right through him, boring a hole into the wall with his molten gaze. Without saying anything he spun on his heel and continued his pacing, arms folded tightly to his chest, shutting out the world.

For several minutes Alan let the silence percolate. But even mere minutes were too much to endure, to watch his son suffer with every footfall.

"Donny… please sit down."

Their eyes met. Fire no longer backed Don's eyes and they had become hollow, inundated with unfathomable agony.

"_Why?"_ A one syllable word that encompassed all of Don's questions that to that moment he had been unable to voice. Why he had let Charlie come to that scene. Why he had not been paying attention. Why he had not caught the sniper before the fact. Why he had brought Charlie on this case. Why he had listened to his brother's talk of sprinkler heads all those months ago.

Why had this happened to him? To them all?

He shook his head softly, dismissing his father's plea, and returned to his pacing without a word.

* * *

The first thing Alan could see was the striped pattern of the wallpaper. Jerking his head upward quicker than he liked, he blinked his eyes against the harsh iridescent light and forced his mind to regain focus. He must have fallen asleep. Glancing across the room he found Don collapsed, exhausted, into a chair. Whether his son was asleep or not, he could not tell.

Time was elastic. Minutes rushed by only to be then stretched out into agonizing lengths again. Alan cursed himself for surrendering to sleep at the one time it seemed most inappropriate. Had he missed something? Had hours passed by, crucial developments come without his knowing? Fear gripped him and he had to force down his desires to rush from his chair and straight to the operating room.

Rising slowly and fighting the aches from his unusual sleeping position, Alan wandered toward the window and pondered the time of day. Had it been twenty minutes or three hours he could not tell; the sky remained the same uninviting shade of starless black.

Convinced that predicting the time was far beyond him at this point Alan's thoughts drifted instead to his youngest son. He hated not knowing, wondering whether Charlie was alive or dead, trapped in a void where the only information he had was from the various medical-related posters hung along the walls of the waiting room.

The door handle twitched and Don—previously so still and unmoving that Alan had forgotten he was even there—leapt to his feet with a speed his father had never seen before; even before Dr. Meisner stepped over the threshold Don was there to meet him. Alan watched the doctor motion with his hands for them both to follow. It was a powerful communication without a word exchanged and Alan started forward, anxious to see his son again.

Through endless corridors Dr. Meisner led them down a path he knew all too well, moving with the swift air of professional instinct. Alan followed the signs with his eyes, all branded with ICU in large white letters, screaming at him. The doctor had not yet said a word and Alan found himself unable to speak; Don kept a reasonable distance behind, his expression one of a man being led off to his own execution.

They walked toward the center of the hospital, a place devoid of natural light, windowless and bare, the threshold between one world and the next. From an adjacent hallway a nurse suddenly joined them, exchanging glances with Dr. Meisner before removing a lanyard with a key card from around her neck. She was their companion for several more minutes until a formidable, windowless door appeared to block their seemingly infinite path.

The nurse swiped the card and the door, once seemingly impenetrable, opened silently to her touch. She waited for the men to filter in before sliding it shut behind them. Dr. Meisner waited for her to join him before starting the procession again, this time past an endless row of cold and identical doors.

The nurse stopped before one of the doors, silent and emotionless. She opened the door and slipped inside, barely exposing a sliver of the room before closing the door behind her.

"Mr. Eppes," Meisner spoke to Alan, "I must warn you … it's not going to look good. Like I said before he's on the respirator and is still in the drug-induced coma. Don't let the machines discourage you; I assure you your son is making progress." He paused, calculating a statement his heart did not want to say. "I'm afraid you can only see him for a few minutes, Mr. Eppes … we can't let you stay overnight here."

"… I understand that," Alan spoke tersely. "I just … want to see my son."

Meisner nodded slowly. The nurse suddenly returned and poked her head out of the door, nodded once, and pushed it fully open for the men to enter. Meisner let the nurse clear the doorway before motioning for the Eppes' to proceed.

"We'll wait out here, Mr. Eppes."

Alan's heart beat wildly in his chest. He was nervous, afraid of what he might find, of what he might see. Glancing back he saw Don's face turn several shades lighter. Cursing himself mentally for not appearing strong for Don, he crossed the threshold with one large stride, masking his fears under an apparent show of bravery. Don entered on more of Dr. Meisner's accord than his own and lingered back in the darkness as the doctor closed the door against his back.

Don watched—and heard—his father try to mask an anguished cry. The sound constricted his very heart in icy clutches and he turned toward the door, unable to bear the feeling.

Alan's mind grasped at something to describe the frightening reality. Foreign sights and sounds. Something—a _creature_—that was not his son stretched out on a stiff metal hospital bed. A large tube protruding from his throat, taped to his mouth. An IV towering nearby, the transparent cord snaking into the backside of a pale hand. A clamp on a limp finger, leads positioned across a bare chest. A horrid creation of bloodied gauze and tape covering a row of black stitches. A blood transfusion traveling through a central line, sharp in crimson contrast against his pale skin, the white room around him. Unnatural sounds: soft clicking and a rush of air from the respirator; the constant beeping of the pulseoxymeter. Flickering lights and numbers and readings on machines beyond their comprehension, each one of them working in unison to keep young Charles Eppes alive.

Overwhelmed, Alan sank into the chair at his son's bedside, fighting back images of his wife's last days, images he had wished never to have to see again. His hand lingered above Charlie's hand, afraid to disturb the tubes and machines, afraid that if he touched his son he would dissolve away, become a pale ghost before his very eyes.

"_Dad, there are a dozen FBI agents and police officers at these scenes. I mean, if I were in any real danger, Don wouldn't let me go, you know that. Don't worry."_

Alan choked back a sob and turned his head away. He couldn't bear to see his son—either of his sons—suffer like this. Had he been watching, he would have seen Don mirroring his actions, guilt nearly tearing his body apart from the inside out.

Dr. Meisner opened the door softly, startling Don who for a moment let his FBI training take over and reached for a gun that was not there. Alan did not bother to look up, but fearing he would never see his son again, reached down and slowly brushed his son's hand, his fingertips.

"I'll be back, Charlie. We both will."

_To Be Continued._


	6. Chapter VI

It hasn't been a month—aren't you proud? I finally kicked my stubborn muse into gear. This chapter is actually part of one that was much, much longer. So, expect the next chapter much sooner than the others—I hope.

As of right now, there's three more chapters left in this little story, unless I end up with another gargantuan chapter like this one. We're almost to the end, thanks for sticking with me!

**CHAPTER VI**

The ICU door offered nothing but a hollow clank as it closed behind Don and Alan Eppes, shutting behind it a portion of their lives, their hope. Tired footsteps echoed off of bare walls and down empty halls, their hesitant pace a testament to a father's reluctance, a brother's shame. Had the nurse not been staring intently at their backs, the Eppes men would have remained there, standing a constant vigil as close to Charlie as the cold doorway would allow. But as the hallways uncoiled into the main foyer—nearly deserted of life so early in the morning—both men felt their hearts grow cold as they stared at the emotionless black night through hospital's sliding glass doors.

Alan half turned, glancing back into the hallway, half-hoping to see Charlie turn the corner, unharmed, that this was all a wicked nightmare, an illusion. When he turned back Don was gone. Alan could barely spot the back of his son's white shirt as the darkness enveloped it. Suppressing a cry of half-surprise and disdain he stumbled after Don and found him all but running through the parking lot.

"Donny!" Alan called to his son, his voice seemingly small against the prodigious night.

Alan watched his son storm across the length of the road abreast of the parking lot like a caged animal, his head whirling, searching. Don walked a somewhat crooked path, his head swiveling back and forth wildly. Then, suddenly, he stopped cold. His body doubled over in frustrated realization, uttering an expletive that all but rattled his teeth. Whipping his head up, he swore again, blatantly cursing at the nearly empty parking lot.

Terry had his SUV.

The sound galvanized Alan's latent paternal instincts and he started forward to meet his son at a speed that belied his age. He came upon Don whipping out his cell phone, punching furiously at the keys. His son's hands trembled, making the simple task nearly impossible, blurring the phone to nothing but a smear of iridescent light in his hand. Alan swallowed hard, dread growing in the pit of his stomach as he watched his son nearly tearing himself apart from the inside out.

As Don raised the phone to his ear, the distant shine of a streetlight gleaming off the sheen of sweat on his face.

"Lake," Don heard Terry speak breathlessly into the phone shortly before the last ring.

"Terry?" Her name sounded as ragged as the shaky breaths Don managed to take.

"Don?" His voice unsettled her, made a cold feeling develop mercilessly throughout her body. "Don, what is it? How's Charlie?"

"Terry," he did not hear her question. "You have my SUV?"

She took a moment to gather her thoughts, the question broad-siding her. "I—uh, yeah."

For reasons even she herself was unable to fathom, Terry had driven Don's SUV home that night. Maybe she knew he would be calling--maybe she hoped he would. Maybe she just wanted to keep a piece of him with her, a piece of the whole Don, the familiar agent, her friend.

"Where are you?" He sounded purely exasperated.

"I just got home—Don, it's almost two in the morning, is something wrong?"

Don sputtered. Of course something was wrong. His brother hovered between life and death; that was wrong. _He_ had done nothing to protect him; that was wrong. _He _hadn't done his job right; that was wrong too.

"Terry, do you have it with you?" Anger tinged his words though Terry knew the tone was not because of her.

"Yeah . . . do you need me?"

"Can you—t-they won't let us stay with him, Terry—can you—"

Terry's stomach flipped. "I'll be there in thirty minutes, tops."

Don staggered over his response, "I-I—uh—thanks."

"No problem, Don. Hold on," she added, pouring empathy into the two simple words, hoping Don would comprehend them.

She disconnected without another word and Don slapped his phone shut, dropping his arms to his sides.

"Donny," Alan reached out to touch his son's arm, the simple gesture igniting a fire that sent Don whirling away, recoiling almost in fear.

"I—I'm sorry, Dad," he gasped, his head tilted to the cement.

"Sorry?" Alan could scarcely believe his ears. "Donny, sorry for what?"

"I … I …"

Alan drew closer, sensing the invisible wall his son had constructed, a feeble attempt to obscure his emotions that now slowly crumbled beneath his father's intuitive gaze.

"You did nothing wrong, Don."

"Shit! Nothing wrong? I _failed_. Failed you, failed Charlie. I didn't do my job. It wasn't good enough. Nothing wrong? Damn it, I did _everything wrong!"_ Throwing his arms in violent gesticulation further punctuated his wild sentence.

"You can't hold yourself responsible for everything that goes wrong under your watch, Don."

Don's head snapped up, staring at his father with cold eyes.

"_Yes I can."_

The terse statement, so icy it stung, propelled Alan into a line of action he had not dabbled in for many years. Lurching forward he snagged Don's arm just above his elbow and swung his son to face him with a strength only a father could know. Don didn't respond, not even a flinch.

"Don, look at me."

Slowly Don's gaze wandered upward to meet his father's face and found it molded in a look he had rarely seen, a hardened expression that belied a hidden compassion of the utmost kind.

"Don," Alan's voice resonated from his throat, a deep, velvety sound. "You will _not_ blame yourself for this, do you understand me? Charlie … made the decision to go to the crime scene on his own, just like you made the decision to allow him to. And I didn't ask any questions. There was _nothing_ any of us could have done, Don, we didn't know …"

"We _did _know, Dad. At least I did."

"So you knew that a deranged man would go after your brother with a gun?"

Don drew a breath to speak but could find no words. His hands flexed, the fingers frozen, grasping for answers just beyond his reach. Alan could feel his son's entire body shaking beneath his hand in pure frustration.

"I--I let it get away from me."

"Don…"

His son tore away from him, turning away to pace in small circles. "There's only one reason Charlie's in that coma right now."

Alan's eyes widened as he heard his son's voice breaking. Don hadn't done that since…

"B-Because I wasn't there for him."

They weren't really tears, more of a sting behind his eyes, but they conveyed the same emotions: anger, agony, defeat, hopelessness, regret. Five notes in a dissonant chord that ripped at Don's mind and heart.

Alan swallowed hard, tortured. He reached out to touch his son again, this time in comfort, but as soon as flesh touched flesh Don shrugged his father's hand away, ashamed.

"I—I'm sorry, Dad," he breathed, shuffling a distance into the darkness.

Alan sighed, wanting to comfort his son but knowing he was not ready, not with his mind in such a state of self-loathing. Letting his gaze float to the sky, the nearly starless night, Alan sighed again and hoped—prayed, even—that Don would recover soon. Charlie's survival depended on it.

For an indeterminable amount of time Alan resigned himself to watching his son pace back and forth across the concrete, his stride sluggish and, though he tried to hide it, pained. Every so often he could see Don's lips vaguely moving as he turned, bathing his face in the moonlight. But Don barely made a sound—not that Alan needed or wanted to hear what he was saying anyway.

Time again regained its elastic quality, thrusting Alan into a noiseless vortex where, despite his thoughts hurtling by at a nauseating rate, the entire world around him ground to an unbearably slow pace. Seconds dragged on for hours; the minutes elongated to an unbearable stretch of black, bleak eternity.

Alan's mind reeled back a few hours to when Don had first approached him with the news. Retrospect nagged persistently at the back of his mind and made white-hot regret surge through his veins. The words he had said, though perfectly understandable coming from any man in such a situation, now burned like acid in his throat.

"_I said it, Donny! Why—How—my son … Donny, how … could you …?"_

Watching his son pace back and forth, Alan suddenly felt at fault—at least in part—for Don's current emotional state. He wanted to say something—an apology, perhaps—to assure his son that he had done no wrong, that all these horrible events were nothing more than a misunderstanding, a horrible nightmare that would end with dawn's coming . . .

But Alan was too overwhelmed to speak much of anything; his tongue felt large and cumbersome in his mouth. And he doubted if Don could hear anything now.

A pair of headlights, stunningly bright, sliced through the dim light of the parking lot, the vehicle they were attached to nothing more than a looming black shadow. Terry seemed hesitant, somehow, to even approach them. The SUV crawled through the parking lot and stopped at Don's side. He paused in his pacing long enough to drag his head upward to glance at the tinted windows with a sour expression.

The window rolled down and Terry met Don's tired, sunken eyes. Her partner showed barely a hint of recognition, every feature of his face frozen in one blank, emotionless expression. Alan suddenly appeared at his son's side, placing a gentle hand on Don's shoulder that made the younger man flinch.

"Terry," Alan all but whispered, "thank you. Thank you for coming."

"I—it's not a problem, Mr. Eppes." It sounded awkward, but it was all she could offer.

Alan's grip on his son's shoulder tightened as he opened the passenger side door. "Get in, Don."

His son slid into the SUV without a word, even his movements silent. Coupled with his nondescript expression, Don seemed like nothing more than a ghost at that moment.

Alan pulled himself into the back seat and closed the door. Terry slipped the SUV in gear and slowly pulled out of the parking lot. She knew the way from here.

* * *

That house. _Charlie's house._ How distant it seemed now. Inappropriate. Vile. It mocked him. Don forced down acid boiling up his throat as he watched it approach. He didn't want to go to that house. He wanted to crawl to a corner of his apartment, secluded. Away from all the memories, from all the shame.

Terry pulled into the driveway and let the SUV idle. She said nothing, remained staring forward. The tense situation made the air in the SUV slowly turn thicker, stagnant—a growth that abruptly stopped as Alan opened the door. He gave an ample nod to Terry before closing his door and waited for Don to exit the vehicle. His son glanced over at Terry, his hollow expression chilling her to the bone.

"Come on, Donny," Alan spoke softly, opening the passenger side door to face his son directly.

"Aren't you taking me to my apartment?" The question wasn't really directed at either of them, as if voiced from a distance.

Alan reached out and grabbed Don's arm again. "No, Don. I—I need you here with me."

"Damn it!" Don turned toward his father with the first real emotion he had shown in half an hour. "I…I…"

But his father's will was far stronger than Don's own. He all but pulled his son—a son he suddenly feared far more broken than the other lying in ICU—from the SUV and steered him toward the front door, pushing the door of the SUV shut as he went.

"Don, please…"

"Dad … I … can't. I don't want to deal with this right now."

"Deal with what? The fact that your brother's in bad shape? The fact that you feel you failed him in every possible way?"

Don shuddered. From his own mind, the words hurt, but coming from his father, they nearly killed him. He felt pieces of himself, memories and feelings, slowly being ripped away.

Alan stopped walking and swung to face his son. Both hands came down on either shoulder and he stopped to stare into Don's eyes. His son met his gaze, albeit hesitantly.

"Well you know what, Don? You didn't fail him. You didn't fail me. And you didn't fail yourself. The only failing you're doing is beating yourself up like this. And I won't let you go on doing it. Now stop it, before I have to knock some sense into you … the old fashioned way."

Don sputtered, any feeble hope of a reply dying in his throat. Alan kept his eyes trained on him, a looming presence. Don hated himself for it, but he kept on walking toward that house—Charlie's house.

Alan reached the door first and realized that in his haste earlier in the day he had left it unlocked. The handle turned gracefully in his hand and the door yawned open, exposing the dark hallway.

"Donny," the name drew his son's eyes upward slowly. "Go … change clothes, please?"

A wave of uneasiness hit Don like nausea. In his hysteria he had all but forgotten the denim pants heavy with Charlie's blood that had been branded into his memory hours before. The stain had faded to a grotesque brown through the hours, now looking more like dirt than precious lifeblood. Fearing nausea would consume him entirely, he staggered over the threshold and into the darkened hallway before he emptied whatever contents was in his stomach all over his father's feet. Alan flicked on the hall light as Don passed and, no longer needing to hide the worry on his face, let weary lines carve into his features.

* * *

Don stumbled through the house, his anger blinding him. Quickly he traversed the family room, its richly decorated hues nothing but monochrome shades in his vision. But upon passing the collection of family photos hanging on the wall he stopped dead. And he saw her. His mother. Staring back at him, her face frozen in a gentle expression, a slight smile at the corners of her mouth.

The room's once monotone colors changed to hues of red. Don's hand crept out to the frame, caressing it in a shaking hand.

"I failed you," he sputtered, hanging his head. "I failed you all."

He released the picture from his grasp and it teetered ominously before slipping off one nail and swinging lopsided against the wall. Don shook his head, his vision blurring, and mounted the stairs on wavering legs.

* * *

Alan began to shut the door behind him when, to his surprise, he heard the SUV's engine die. A door opened and closed. Alan stepped out in curiosity and came face to face with Terry, who promptly held up the SUV's keys and dropped them into his hand.

"These are Don's, Mr. Eppes."

Momentarily stunned, Alan could merely sputter his thanks.

Terry smiled, one that did not reach her eyes, and turned slowly to leave.

"Where's your car, Terry?" Alan asked after she had taken a few steps. He felt a twinge of sympathy for leaving Terry in such a predicament in such an ungodly hour.

"It's still at the office—the FBI office," she responded softly.

"Oh, well … would you like to drive me there? I could bring Don's car back here … or you could drive it home, I'm sure we can thing of a way to pick it up later …"

Terry placed a hand gently on Alan's shoulder. "No, Mr. Eppes … don't worry." She pulled out her cell phone. "I'll just call a cab. I can have David pick me up on his way to the office in the morning. Please, you … you shouldn't be worrying about me right now."

Alan smiled, visibly relieved. He watched Terry make the call, her voice tired and nearly unintelligible at a distance. When she disconnected Alan motioned for her to come inside.

"Don't wait out here."

Terry hesitated, astonished that Alan could be so levelheaded in such a situation. Even without having to keep a strong façade for his son the older man's spirit seemed remarkably resilient, the deep, worried lines of his face notwithstanding.

Terry closed the door behind her but lingered near it, feeling like an intruder in the most inopportune moment.

"I'll just wait here, Mr. Eppes … you can head upstairs. I'll lock the door behind me when I leave …" her sentence trailed off.

"Thank you, Terry."

"… Good night, Mr. Eppes."

Alan smiled weakly at her and padded away, disappearing around the corner and up the staircase, leaving Terry in uncomfortable silence. She peered out the small window set in the door, searching through the frosted glass for any sign of her cab's imminent approach.

After a moment her eyes wandered the area, sweeping over a corner of the family room, examining what she could in the semi-darkness. One picture caught her eye, a family portrait taken, she assumed, many years earlier when both Charlie and Don were merely teenagers. It felt strange seeing Don in an element she never had before, his smile bright with his little brother beside him, his mother and father flanking them from behind. A strange feeling crept up the length of Terry's body and she quickly averted her gaze from the picture, feeling the prick of tears behind her eyes. Blinking them away and thrusting the image of the family portrait in the back of her mind, she resumed her vigil at the door, grateful to see two beams of light approaching from the distance. She slipped outside without a sound and crossed the distance between the house and the cab in quick, almost panicked strides.

* * *

Don saw sunlight. Bright, unadulterated sunlight streaming in from the partly drawn shades on the window. He had spent the night in his old room, snatching what clean clothes he could from his father's room down the hall. The bloodied jeans had come under attack with a pair of scissors the moment he had taken them off, a means of expending his pent up fury. The pieces now spilled over the lip of the small trash can in the corner of the room.

Don blinked his eyes in obvious confusion, rising from the bed he had just collapsed on the night before, too anguished to draw back the sheets. The sunlight was bright, teeming with afternoon warmth. Dragging his mind from the foggy recesses of sleep Don whipped his head around and focused on the small alarm clock on the bedside table. The little red letters showed 1:32. Afternoon. Don cursed out loud and hit the door at a run, plunging into the hall.

He called out for his father and checked every room, barreling down the stairs in socked feet and nearly sliding the entire length of the family room. The house seemed deserted. Storming into the kitchen, Don hissed in frustration, searching for a note his father may have left to indicate his whereabouts. He found one on the kitchen counter, weighed down by the keys to his SUV. Shoving the keys aside, he picked up the post-it note and quickly scanned it, feeling his heart drop to the pit of his stomach.

_Donny. I tried to wake you. You wouldn't, decided to let you sleep. Gone to hospital. Will be back later. – Dad._

Don sucked in a breath through his teeth and crushed the note in a shaking fist. He felt betrayed, angered beyond his limits. His father had left him behind—and he had been too tired to notice. A hundred emotions he had fought through the previous day suddenly came rushing back twofold, assaulting him, snapping him back into frightening reality. He had to get down to that hospital. What if something had happened? Something his father didn't want him to know? Something … Don didn't want to think it.

He donned the first pair of tennis shoes he could find, snatched his keys from the counter, and hurtled himself out the door. Come hell or afternoon traffic, he would get to that hospital, to his brother.


	7. Chapter VII

Well, I have some good news and some bad news. Good news? New chapter! Bad news? See, I'm in college now and working part-time, so that little thing called 'free time' doesn't exist much any more. I'll try not to make updates between chapters too long, but I can't make any promises. Real life tends to throw a wrench in my plans where writing is concerned more often than I'd like it to! On the other hand, there's only two more chapters left (possibly three, depending on where my muse takes me), so we're almost to the end! Thanks a million for sticking with me!

Oh, and a note for anyone familiar with Numb3rs-org: there's a SDKG inside joke in here somewhere. See if you can find it!

**CHAPTER VII**

Don hated LA traffic. But right then, stuck in a gridlock less than halfway to his destination, he abhorred it. For every minute his SUV crawled along the hot asphalt he could feel Charlie drawing farther and farther away. Expending his breath into more curses than it seemed humanly possible, Don waited. And waited. Just when it seemed he had reached the proverbial tipping point, he spotted an exit ramp hovering just a hundred yards away. It wasn't his correct exit, but at that moment Don didn't care if it led into a wall of fire. Against his better judgment he snapped on the SUV's lights and siren, veered onto the shoulder, punched the gas, and tore up the exit ramp.

Weaving in and out of traffic and startling innocent motorists and pedestrians was not Don's usual mode of travel, but at that moment nothing else existed. He knew the city well enough to take the path of least resistance, even if it was nothing more than a crooked journey down streets and alleyways and through parking lots.

Tearing the wrong way down a short one way street, he whipped into the hospital's parking lot at nearly three times the posted speed limit, lights and siren still going strong. Lurching into the valet lane he jumped from the SUV, tossed the keys to the startled driver, and charged into the building.

Don's eyes recognized nothing from the previous night, but his subconscious mind did. If asked to recreate his route by sight he could not, but his feet carved a path through the twisting halls almost of their own accord. The bare hallways admitted him silently and without resistance. He moved like a man walking through water, his steps in great haste but held back, weighed down by a great and unseen force. Don could not place it, but though his body and mind longed to draw closer, his heart remained hesitant. The closer he came to the great and heavy door, the more he felt as if he was dragging a great ball and chain behind him. A prisoner of his own heart.

The door glared at him, as faceless and soundless as the gray barrier between life and death itself. Don tried the handle but it would not give. Cursing, he rested his forehead quite forcefully against the solid wood with a disgruntled sigh. So he was completely unprepared when the threshold trembled and swung open. The door's bulk pushed him back with great force, all but throwing him against the wall. He hissed as the raised doorstop came in contact with the small of his back. Unable to decide which hurt more—his head, his back, or his pride—he resigned himself to glowering in the door's shadow, embarrassed.

A young nurse with a head of dark hair peered around the door. Seeing Don, her eyes widened. She mumbled an apology and stepped away from the door, shutting it slightly so Don could peel himself off the wall.

"I need to get in there," Don mumbled. "I need to see someone.

The nurse shuffled her weight. "Um… yeah, okay. Who?"

"Eppes," Don whispered. His throat had suddenly become dry, pained. "Charlie Eppes."

The nurse glanced over her shoulder to the depths of the ICU for several moments. She turned slowly back to Don, her expression distant, almost afraid.

"Of course," she spoke without meeting Don's eyes. She pushed the door open again, stepping aside for him to enter. "Room 14."

Don kept his head low and slipped past her, pulling the door shut unceremoniously behind him. Two nurses eyed him bemusedly from the large desk to the left of the door but made no effort to stop him. Unbeknownst to Don himself, his name and that of his brother had already made the rounds with most of the nursing staff, ICU or otherwise.

"Mr. Eppes…" one of the nurses offered as he walked past, her voice hesitant, timid.

"Room 14, I know," Don replied stiffly.

"No, please, Mr. Eppes—"

He continued without hearing her down the hall. The nurse who had spoken to Don only moments before exchanged a look with her partner that conveyed nothing but dread. She rose to her feet and slowly started after him.

Don searched the numbers on the doors for what seemed like miles until he spotted the sign bearing the number 14 in large white letters. It didn't occur to him to knock, and he flung the door open without a second thought and hurled himself inside.

His stomach crashed to his feet. The intense fire, the need to see his brother, snuffed out in an instant and an unbearable cold rushed through his body from his fingertips to his heart.

The room was empty. The hospital bed, the IV tower, the respirator, the pulseoxymeter—equipment that had once dominated the room now left a stark emptiness in its wake. And Alan sat alone in the one chair that had been beside the bed with his back to the door, his head bowed and his face hidden.

"D-D-D-" Don's tongue completely failed him and he could utter nothing more than a horrid, raspy whine. His bones melted to liquid and he stumbled across the room, flinging himself against the back of the chair for support. Alan stifled a gasp and dropped the magazine he had been reading and craned his neck to see his son's pale face.

"Donny?" Alan stood and turned to face him, alarmed. "What's wrong?"

"W-Wrong? Wrong!" Don flung his arms around wildly, using the action to convey the sentences he was unable to articulate. "D-Dad! C-Charlie!" He spun around, surveying the room with disbelieving eyes. "Wrong! Why! W-What!"

Alan placed his hands on Don's shoulders and felt his son trembling wildly.

"Donny, listen to me! He's all right!"

Don continued on, unhearing. "Dad! Where did they take him?"

"Don, he's fine! They're bringing him back!"

His son unleashed a curse, so rabid and primal that Alan flinched against its force.

"He's having chest x-rays done, Mr. Eppes," called out the nurse from her place at the doorway. "It's routine procedure for those recovering from his type of surgery. He should be back soon." She spoke in a voice of pure professionalism, neither comforting nor angry.

"Routine procedure?" Don wheezed out in a sigh. "Why didn't you _tell us_ about the _routine procedure,_ damn it?"

"She did," Alan offered softly. "You just weren't here, Don. Don't worry. I swear to you, he's fine."

"I'm sorry for the confusion, Mr. Eppes. I tried to tell you when you first came in."

Don brushed passed his father and fell limply into the chair. He dragged his hands down his face, hissing through his teeth.

"I'm sorry," he moaned. "I—damn it."

Alan reached down a hand to his son's shoulder, and Don did not refuse it. The nurse left the room, and the two men stood frozen in a heavy silence for several more minutes.

"… I feel like an idiot, Dad," Don ventured. "Damn, this is—it's just … hard."

Alan gave his son's shoulder a squeeze. "I know, Donny. But we have to have faith and be strong—for Charlie and for ourselves. It'll be all right, Don. I just know it."

"But it was my fau—"

"No."

His father's abrupt reply startled Don and he turned to face a stern expression.

"No," his father reiterated.

Don heaved a sigh just as the door swung open and a flurry of activity burst into the room. Two nurses swarmed in an out of his line of vision, pushing Charlie smoothly in his hospital bed and adjusting the mass of equipment that accompanied him. Machines were checked, as was his IV. In all the movement Don barely noticed that the central line of Charlie's blood transfusion had been removed.

The nurses filed out without a word and no sooner had the door closed behind them that it opened again, admitting Dr. Meisner into the room, and with him a stiff silence. The doctor stepped over to the Eppes men, acknowledged them separately, and shook Alan's hand with a professional vigor.

"It's really too early to say much, Mr. Eppes," he began, "but I believe Charlie is improving. His vitals have grown drastically stronger. Depending on the x-rays tonight, we may be able to take him off the respirator as early as tomorrow evening."

"Wonderful," Alan sputtered breathlessly. All the information seemed to be too much for him to take in at once. He stole a gentle look over he shoulder at Charlie, pale and still on the bed, and felt reassured. Improving. Charlie was getting better. That was all that mattered. "Thank you, Doctor Meisner."

The doctor nodded. "I'll be back in a few hours. Press the button for Nurse Maple if you need anything."

Alan nodded, still focused on Charlie. Don stared over his brother's body at the collection of machinery at the bedside, focused on the flashing numbers and blinking lights. The doctor's departure plunged the Eppes men into silence again. It was not a heavy silence, but rather comforting, Charlie's presence alleviating the tension present moments before. Even the continual beeping of the pulseoxymeter and the soft clicks from the respirator were less noticeable, almost background noise, as both men stood a silent vigil.

"… Don," Alan seemed almost reluctant to break the silence. "Don't you need to … head back to the office?"

Don merely gaped at his father for a few moments before the words registered in his brain and a fire lit up beneath his feet. He jumped from the chair, seething.

"Shit! … Yeah—I should probably go." The words dripped in acidic regret.

"Come back when you're off work. Hopefully you can come before visiting hours are over. You can have some time alone with him."

The last comment caught Don off guard.

"I—uh, okay, Dad."

"Come back soon, Donny."

Alan took his son's place in the chair as Don headed for the door.

* * *

Don walked a smooth path through the FBI office, eliciting half-glances and quiet murmurs from coworkers that watched him pass, a sort of sentient and silent energy. What had happened to Charlie was well-known all through the office. Don pushed on, unhearing, unseeing. He rode the elevator alone. Reaching his level and heading for his desk, heads craned to follow him with silent, uneasy expressions. Others called out quiet sentiments to him, wasted on unhearing ears. 

Terry could see him coming through the glass walls and her heart suddenly constricted. Almost in spite of herself she made her way towards him, meeting him only feet from his desk. She reached out and touched him softly on the arm just below his shoulder, a gesture of pure comfort. She could feel Don's body, tense as a coiled spring.

David came around the corner several feet behind them. Seeing Don, he stopped short and detoured in the opposite direction. Don didn't notice him.

"Don, I—" Terry began.

Don raised his eyes to look at her. His empty expression, not unlike in the SUV the night before, made even the air around him seem cold, an aura of total agony and sadness.

Terry struggled to regain her train of thought. Unconsciously her grip on Don's arm tightened. "… Merrick's put you on paid leave, Don."

The sudden flinch that coursed through Don's body caused Terry to jerk her arm back, startled.

"W—What?" he sputtered.

"He's put you on paid leave. You can go, at least until Charlie pulls through. He doesn't think you'd do well working on cases right now, and personally, I agree with him…"

"Yeah…"

"You need to be with your family right now, Don. It's as simple as that. Merrick knows that … we all do."

A brief pause followed in which Terry wondered if he had heard her at all.

This time Don's arms found her, locking her in nothing short of a small embrace.

"Thanks," he spoke.

Terry flushed. "Go, Don. Keep us informed?"

A nod. Don left the building quickly and with a purpose, his earlier vigor to see his brother suddenly revitalized.

* * *

A click, barely discernable even in the silence. A soft and steady stream of oxygen. The gentle rise and fall of a chest weighed down, unable to breathe steadily on its own. Unnatural sounds, foreign tubes snaking sinisterly, ushering strange liquids. Machines. Utterly grotesque, they dwarfed Charlie's prone form. No matter how hard Don tried, he could not bring himself to look at his younger brother's face, to see the gargantuan tube of the respirator with all its contraptions shadowing half of Charlie's pale face. 

He had just returned from another chest x-ray, more routine procedure, and one he would encounter every two hours in succession for several more days. Don sat beside him in utter silence, thinking of night approaching beyond the windowless walls, the sun dipping below the cement horizon and dousing the buildings in hues of orange and red. It was a tranquil image, sacrosanct, and, in context, wholly obscene.

Don rested his chin on his balled fists, elbows on his knees. Tearing his thoughts away from inane sunsets, he began to stare distantly at nothing, as was his wont since the fatal conclusion to that terrible case merely a day before. In fact, Charlie had absorbed every figment of his life—Don could barely remember the details of the case, of what he did that day, or even the current day of the week. Everything before the shooting was a blank, everything after it a blur.

Don's stomach suddenly growled, lurching him from his reverie. A wave of nausea washed over him, its ferocity making the room spin. Taking several deep and calculated breaths to dispel the room's liquid-like quality, Don realized that it had been hours—nearly a day, really—since he had even seen any food. He tried to ignore it, but the horrible feeling scattered any meager thoughts he had and made dealing with Charlie's situation all the more difficult for him. Reluctantly he took to his feet, steadying himself against the back of the chair. His free hand sought Charlie's, hesitating for only an instant before pressing down against the tepid flesh.

Don swallowed hard, stiffening as if touching his brother pained him. "Don't worry, buddy," he spoke softly. "I'll be right back."

He withdrew his hand and had barely turned a full circle when a horrid screeching assaulted his senses, carrying with it so much force that Don jumped against the chair, knocking it over and nearly falling himself in the process. In a horrid fraction of a second Don's world lurched upside down. He knew the sound and its connotation. _A flatline_. The sound he thought he would only hear in movies, the sound of death itself. The sound mixed with the silence and became chaos. Don's legs turned to cement. He wanted to rush to his brother's side, to assure himself it was not true. He wanted to run for help, convinced that it was. Charlie had flatlined. The beat of his heart had stopped, his feeble breaths stilled. He had lost the battle he had so valiantly fought. Flatline. Death. A cold table behind a steel door.

Don's hand clutched at his hairline, his breath frozen, words stuck in his throat. The agonizing sound of the flatline drowned out even the fierce beating of his heart. Overcome, rage and confusion and terror and agony coursing through every synapses of his brain, he mustered the only sound he was able to make, and screamed.

The door shot open and smashed against the wall, rebounding off the doorstop and brushing off Nurse Maple's shoulder as she rushed into the room. She pushed Don aside to reach Charlie, instantly scanning the machines and holding a syringe in her hand. His sheer emotions propelling him, Don found the courage to glance at Charlie's face for a shaking moment. Had adrenaline not frozen his body solid, he would have dropped soundlessly to the floor. So still. Behind the bulk of the respirator, Charlie's face was calm, innocent, serene. It was death's expression, all that remains after all life drains from muscles and bone.

Tears came and Don did not try to stop them. His little brother was gone. _Charlie was dead._

But suddenly, the noise stopped. The alarm ceased, a steady beat replaced the shrill tone. Don sputtered, unbelieving. He threw his head up, staring through misty eyes to see Nurse Maple watching him cautiously from across the room.

"I-It's okay, Mr. Eppes. Everything's fine now. It was a—a malfunction of the machinery."

Don's jaw slackened, his mind struggling to process the information.

"The—uh, the clamp on his finger slipped off. It—It must've come loose during transport, for the x-rays." She opened and closed her mouth several times, searching for words. "It's—ah—it's not uncommon, Mr. Eppes." She looked truly sincere, "I'm so sorry about this scare, Mr. Eppes, so sorry."

Don stared at her, his breathing so erratic and his face so pale Nurse Maple considered for a moment getting_ him_ medical attention.

"He—he—" Don struggled, in the end merely looked hopefully in Charlie's direction.

"He's fine, Mr. Eppes," Nurse Maple offered softly.

Not dead. The words hit Don with a thousand pounds of force. He staggered, struggling to think, to comprehend, to sort out all the events of the last minute—sixty seconds that had seemed like a million more. It was too much for his already tortured mind to accept. Sputtering, he hurled himself toward the door. Stumbling out, he fell to his knees in the hall and heaved, but his empty stomach could offer nothing. Panting, dizzy, and overwhelmed he merely curled against the wall, his head resting against his knees, his eyes closed off from the horror he had just witnessed. Nothing was wrong. A malfunction. A mishap. Charlie was still alive. He hadn't … died. Don bit down hard on his tongue to stave the nausea with which he fought a losing battle.

An indeterminable time later—Don had given up attempting to discern time any more—the door closed softly behind Nurse Maple, who paused for a moment to examine Don sitting against the wall in the hallway. Don ignored her.

"Mr. Eppes…?"

Silence. A vortex of chaotic thought had Don in an infallible hold.

"Mr. Eppes, I really think you—"

"Go," Don growled, a harsh and primal roar. "Leave."

Nurse Maple hesitated, genuinely worried about Don, but after a moment decided he was beyond her power and shuffled away, leaving him in silence.

* * *

He wanted to go back into the room. He wanted to see his brother again, to protect him and hold a constant vigil, but his body refused. So weak. His mind and his body failed him. Chaotic thought had receded into a lethargic emptiness, a state of shock that left him unable to move, unable to think save that, for a moment, he truly thought Charlie dead. And that he had just stood by to watch it happen, nothing less than a sin. What if it hadn't been a slip of the machinery? 

He had failed Charlie. In the end everything led to that. If not for that sniper shot…

Another set of footsteps started down the hall, heavier than Nurse Maple's, smooth and precise. Don felt a presence stop next to him and a hand came down on his shoulder. He opened his eyes to find another hand held out to him. Glancing up, he espied Dr. Meisner's face. Don took the doctor's outstretched hand and staggered to his feet, unconsciously accepting Dr. Meisner's support as he wavered dangerously.

"Mr. Eppes, I heard what happened," Dr. Meisner began. "I can understand your anger, but you can trust me when I say that absolutely nothing happened to Charlie. The clamp simply slipped off. Charlie is not the first person this has happened to, and I assure you he will not be the last. It was just … unfortunate that you had to be present. It's a hard thing for anyone.

Don sucked in a few breaths to steady himself. "Unfortunate," he wheezed. "He wouldn't even need that damn clamp if it wasn't for me."

Dr. Meisner remained silent, studying Don.

"Oh come on, you probably saw the news on TV," Don continued. "It's probably everywhere, isn't it? The story? A world-class mathematician damn near dead because his brother didn't do his job right?"

"I heard nothing of the sort," Dr. Meisner stated, the epitome of professionalism. "And he's not 'damn near dead,' Mr. Eppes. I've told you before that he will pull through, and my position hasn't changed."

"It's been … what, two days? Three days? And it was the machinery this time—what if next time, it's not?"

Dr. Meisner tightened his grip on Don's arm. "There won't _be_ a next time."

"You have no idea how hard this is."

"Mr. Eppes—_Don—_I'm a doctor. I deal with sick and hurt people every day of my life. Even with death. And it's never easy. But I've seen a lot of people pull though, some of them as bad off as Charlie is, or worse. And you know something? It's not so much a miracle or the work of some divine power. It's their will to live, and the will of the people around them to want them to live, too. I can't explain it, I don't think anyone can, but there's something about people knowing that others care about them and don't want them to go that keeps them fighting. I imagine Charlie knows that."

His frank and almost altruistic tone caught Don off guard. He remained silent, processing the doctor's information.

"And I know Charlie doesn't blame you. He just can't tell you yet."

Don sputtered, nearly recoiling in shock. The statement's audacity instinctually made him want to rearrange the doctor's face, but somewhere in the back of his mind it comforted him, as if they were words he wanted to hear, _needed_ to hear.

"You've been beating yourself senseless over what happened to Charlie, but tell me this. Have you ever considered what will happen once he wakes up?"

The proverbial ton of bricks slammed headlong into Don. Whatever thoughts he had been nurturing vanished. The doctor had spoken the pure and infallible truth. It shamed Don to admit it, but he had never considered when—or even the mere possibility--that Charlie would wake from that coma. He thought back to what his father had said, words that until now he had ignored.

"Blaming yourself isn't going to make things better." Dr. Meisner looked straight into Don's eyes as he spoke. "But wanting Charlie to pull through is."

Don held the doctor's gaze for a moment, contemplating. Pieces began to fall into place, the shattered parts of his mind and his heart so far scattered since the shooting less than 36 hours before. He stole a glance toward the door, feeling the great weight lessen on his shoulders. He wouldn't be able to fully remove his guilt until he saw his brother's eyes, but until then he could hope, tremendous feelings of self-loathing no longer weighing him down. Amazing that a doctor he had met under the most unfavorable circumstances could be a catalyst to understanding everything he had ignored until now.

He turned back to Dr. Meisner. "Everything will be all right."

Dr. Meisner smiled, bright and genuine. "Yes, it will."

Don extended his arm to the doctor, and they shook hands. Don turned to the door.

"Excuse me, doctor. I'm going to go call my father."

_To Be Continued._


	8. Chapter VIII

Ask and ye shall receive! Another new chapter is here, just in time for the new season! Yes, it's been a whole month again, and I actually had most of the chapter written about three weeks ago. Sorry for making you all wait this long! I know, I know, I'm really bad at this…

Anyway, my muse went on overdrive, so instead of having one more chapter, there will be two. So I'll round it off at a nice 10 chapters. Warm and fuzzies abound!

Many thanks to Storyspindler for providing the inspiration that made this chapter a thousand times more powerful than I had ever imagined it could be.

**CHAPTER VIII**

"I thought you said we'd be able to take him off the respirator today?"

Don met Doctor Meisner's eyes with a tinge of acrimony and accusation. The doctor returned his gaze, unperturbed and sporting a friendly demeanor intermingled with his usual air of utmost professionalism.

"Perhaps I overstepped myself when I said that, Mr. Eppes. We can't take him off the respirator, at least not completely. But, since he's getting stronger we'll configure the respirator so that it only breathes for Charlie when he absolutely needs it."

"Needs it?" questioned Alan between them. The three men conversed in Charlie's room, the doctor standing at the foot of the bed, Alan in the chair beside it, and Don standing next to his father.

"It will regulate his breathing, that's all. If his breathing becomes too shallow or too fast it will get him back on a steady pattern. It's a step in the right direction, really. Once he shows signs of consciousness we'll probably be able to take the respirator out within a few hours."

"Signs of consciousness?" Don's ears perked at the thought.

"Well, he may not be completely coherent, but opening his eyes is probably the best indication we have."

Alan gazed pensively at Charlie's face. "I thought … you said he was on some sort of drug to keep him from fighting the respirator?"

"That was only when it was really touch-and-go, when he was dependent on the respirator to keep him alive. Now that his vitals have improved, we'll take him off those drugs and just let him come out of the coma on his own."

Alan sighed, expelling in it his fears and worry. He moved to face the doctor. "So … he'll wake up soon?"

"Well, it all depends on Charlie, really." Dr. Meisner stole a look in Don's direction, exchanging a friendly smile as he remembered their conversation the night before. "But I don't think it will take him very long."

Don's eyes wandered to Charlie's face, no longer a stilled face of death, but a latent expression of hope. _It wouldn't take him very long._ Don's emotions, already minced, swirled wildly at this new information. He didn't know whether to be hopefully anxious or deathly afraid.

"Thank you, Doctor Meisner." Alan may have been overjoyed, but he was drained. It showed in his posture, his voice. He needed Charlie to awaken as much as Don did, if not more.

Suddenly there came a knock at the door, and it swung open, admitting an older, clean-shaven man with an impressive silver coiffure. Of a medium build, he carried himself much like his counterpart across the room, sporting an air of professionalism with an aura of almost friendliness that permeated from his features.

Doctor Meisner turned to greet the man and shook his hand vigorously. Turning to Don and Alan he added: "Dr. Auerbach is here to adjust Charlie's respirator."

Doctor Auerbach, the respiratory specialist who had been monitoring Charlie in ICU, had become quite familiar to Don and Alan over the past three days, making his presence known every few hours to check on Charlie's vital signs. He exchanged greetings with each of the Eppes men, the first spoken contact they had made in the entire time they had seen each other.

"It should only take a few minutes to make the adjustments," he spoke. "I'll stay here just to make sure, but I don't foresee any problems."

With a smile and not another word he began his work, spinning to face the machinery and to study the luminescent figures, checking on Charlie's vital signs. Finding them sufficient, he leaned over the respirator and pressed at several buttons.

"What I'm doing is adjusting the respirator, as I imagine Dr. Meisner already explained to you?" He looked up from the machinery to face the Eppes men as he spoke. "It'll be a gradual weaning until it stops breathing for him completely, unless absolutely necessary."

As if on cue, the gentle rush of oxygen from the respirator subsided and Dr. Auerbach whipped back to his work. There was a sudden pause, a deafening silence.

And then Charlie took his first unassisted breath, a ragged whisper of a sound a bit too shallow for the doctor's liking.

Alan held his own breath, trepidation weighing heavy on his chest, the gravity of the situation becoming an actual physical mass. Time stood still. Doctor Auerbach pursed his lips, focused intently on the glowing figures. The respirator rushed to life and faded away a second time. The brief moments between the respirator's end and the beginning of Charlie's shuddering breaths became the longest moments of their lives, excruciatingly painful to endure. But Charlie's breathing came ever more strongly as the respirator gradually sighed away and eventually stopped completely.

There was no longer the soft click and rush of air, a sound that had become almost second nature to Alan and Don. It was instead oddly quiet, with nothing but gentle and periodical intakes of air. _Charlie's breaths._ An action that until now had been assisted, unnatural. To see the rise and fall of his son's chest, the definitive sound of life rushing to and from his body, brought a sting of tears to Alan's eyes. Charlie was breathing, the undeniable proof of life.

Dr. Meisner smiled, catching the astounded expression on Alan's face. "That's all Charlie, Mr. Eppes."

Alan made a sound, an attempt at words, but even such a simple task betrayed him. Seeing infallible proof that Charlie—_his son—_breathed like any healthy man elevated his earlier visions of hope from a far-fetched reality to an undeniable truth.

Whereas time for the past two days had passed at an inexplicably slow pace, the next few minutes showed no elastic quality; it was as if Charlie's small step on the path to recovery had returned a slice or normalcy back into Don and Alan's lives. Dr. Auerbach announced the transition complete and, with a friendly smile, took leave of the other men.

"I'll be back in a few hours. Call Nurse Maple if you need anything," offered Dr. Meisner as he closed the door softly at his back, unafraid to let a brilliant smile flash for a moment across his face.

* * *

The respirator's unnatural sounds were gone. The hours passed in beautiful, unadulterated silence. Don and Alan found comfort in the softness, in the familiar familial presence. It had been hours since Charlie had begun to breathe on his own, one step closer to life, to his family. 

"Don," Alan unwillingly disrupted the silence. "I think … we need to talk."

Don glanced at his father out of the corners of his eyes, wary of the sudden conversation. "About what?"

"… About what I said before. You know, before—"

"How _I_ had him going out on crime scenes? How Charlie could never say no to _me?_" Don hissed with a fair degree of heat.

"Don, stop it. You know I never blamed you and I'm not about to start now. But this is serious. I don't know if … if we should let Charlie consult with you for a while…"

Don digested the thought in a moment of silence.

"Yeah," he offered meekly. "I was thinking the same thing."

"It's not that I don't think you can protect him, Don. I know it's just the opposite. But I just don't want him … exposed. I don't want to risk that something like this could happen again."

Though he tried not to, Don visibly showed his hurt, his inert feelings of failure.

"Yeah."

"I mean … your brother wants to go off and do … more than slightly dangerous things. I learned how to deal with that with you, but … I don't know, Donny. With him, it—" his voice faded away into uncertainty.

"He's not a cop, Dad. I know, you've said it before. And he almost … _died_…" he choked out the word "because of … mistakes. Our mistakes. And we just came to realize them too late." He studied Charlie's face without fear. "I don't blame you. I don't even know if I want to see him consulting … _ever_ again."

"Don!"

"No, Dad, hear me out. It's more danger to Charlie than it's worth."

"But it makes him feel _closer _to you, Don. Don't you see?"

Again Don stared at him though the corners of his eyes. "So he's trying to bond with me and gets himself shot. It seems like a bit of flawed logic, doesn't it?"

"Don, I can understand you're upset, but… taking him away from consulting all together? Don, that's ridiculous!"

"Would you rather have Charlie consulting, or staying alive?"

"Donny, now you're just overreacting!"

"I don't want him to get hurt again, Dad."

"Taking him away from consulting will hurt him more than bullets ever will, Don. You've become a part of Charlie's life again—I don't know if you realize it. He _wants_ to consult for you. Not for the money, but for you. To prove himself to his older brother—whether his older brother likes it or not."

Don closed his eyes, heaving a sigh. He didn't even pause to contemplate. Turning his head to face his father he spoke through an ashen expression.

"I've made my decision, Dad."

Alan returned his son's gaze with his own of steel. "You're not going to be able to stop him."

Don replied, emotionless, "yes, I will."

Silence overcame them again, Alan's response dying in his throat. Don's fluctuating feelings of blame and guilt, obviously locked in a proverbial battle of good and evil against his otherwise healthy emotions, was an enemy Alan no longer had the strength to face.

He heaved himself to his feet, unwinding the knots in his back. "I'm going for coffee. Would you like any?"

Don had begun pacing, barely muttering a "no" between his furious thoughts.

Alan debated reaching out to his son again, but doubted if anything short of a miracle could bring Don out of his most recent rut of self-deprecation. Caffeine's siren song pulled him from the room, leaving his two sons alone, hoping that somehow they could find their way back to one another.

* * *

The small television hanging in the corner kept jumping from an arm's length to a considerable distance as Don paced the width of Charlie's ICU room at a furious rate. The constant surreal sounds of the respirator no longer weighing him down, the silence in the room was painful to his ears. Only the rhythmic beeping of the pulseoxymeter occupied him, a distant lulling sound, merely background noise. 

Alone with only his unconscious brother to occupy him, Don purged his thoughts. He forgot about his father, about his job, about every facet of the world around him; his mind opened instead to his own innermost torture. Every waking thought focused on his brother, still unconscious on a hospital bed after two and a half agonizing days. It had been nearly three days since he had last heard his brother's voice or seen his eyes. Nearly three days since he had held Charlie in his lap, bleeding, watching him die.

_My fault, my fault, in the end it's all my fault._ The hellish thought that had haunted him for the past three days came back in full force. Dr. Meisner may have opened the door, but Don still hesitated to pass through it.

Suddenly, a movement. He felt it more than saw it, as if a small, invisible connection between himself and his brother had suddenly been created. His head whipped around and he stared at Charlie intently. The pulseoxymeter droned on, the flickering of its crystalline numbers the only motion in an area of otherwise perfect stillness.

Had he been hallucinating?

No. A sound. A whisper of life. It would not have been audible had adrenaline not perked Don's senses. He took a step closer, his heart hammering against his chest, so loud it all but resonated and so fast that it hurt.

"…Charlie?" Don could barely hear himself over the deafening beating in his ears.

And then he saw it again. A movement of the curls so subtle a blink would have effaced it completely.

Don rushed forward, fighting the desire to have his legs crumble uselessly. He threw himself into the chair beside the bed, skirting it several inches across the floor with his weight.

"Charlie!" Though all his strength backed it, the word came out at nothing more than a hoarse squeak. Don gripped Charlie's hand in his own, scarcely realizing his own strength, nearly trembling with pure emotion. "C-Charlie!" he repeated, louder this time, his emotions becoming too much to bear. "Come on … wake up, buddy."

Charlie turned his head toward the sound—ever slowly, but movement. Don heaved a huge breath, releasing in it the bulk of his turbulent emotions of the past three days. Charlie was moving; infallible proof he was alive, that the sniper had not claimed victim number ten, that Don would not have to bury his brother, that Professor Eppes would live to lecture again.

Don trembled. Terror, hope, sorrow, anger, agony—all of his emotions tumbled into one maelstrom of speechlessness.

Eyes moved, though only slightly and under closed lids. Don leaned in closer, his bone-crushing grip on Charlie's hand becoming even stronger. He stared, half-gaping, propelled into a case of tunnel vision.

A soft flutter of eyelashes. A sliver of brown, nearly absorbed in shadows. Charlie uttered a soft sound, the respirator nearly muting it. But it was _a sound._ In time Don would not remember it, but at that moment it was a sound as beautiful as a symphony.

Everything moved in slow motion. For only a moment Don caught the full circle of Charlie's eyes, empty and unseeing, gleaming obsidian in the light, before the lids consumed them again. Opening for a second fragile moment, Charlie's eyes rolled back into his head, showing only slits of pearl white. Don trembled, remembering with staggering clarity the very similar action from when Charlie first slipped into his coma in the ambulance.

"Come on, Chuck, don't do this to me."

Don's grip on his brother's hand never faltered. When his brother's hand suddenly moved in response to his touch, Don nearly jumped out of his own skin. Gentle and no more than a whisper of movement, it sent a shiver of fire down Don's arms. In that one movement he could feel every ounce of his brother's struggle, of his fight back to reality. He pressed his other hand on top of both of their own, willing his want, his strength.

Charlie's eyes fluttered again, opening for a fraction longer. He moved his head again, trying to turn it to the presence he felt beside him.

"D-Dad's on his way, Charlie," Don sputtered. "Wake up for him, Charlie. For us."

Charlie drew in a deeper breath, releasing it almost in a sigh. He opened his eyes again, albeit lethargically, squinting against the light. They still remained empty and glassy, seeing nothing but a blurred and depthless world without color or form. Charlie's lids drooped, not having even the strength to blink.

"C-Charlie," Don breathed, scarcely able to comprehend what he was seeing.

Charlie's eyes traveled slowly toward the voice. His mind fought to focus through the drugged haze and, once settling upon Don's presence, it did. Confusion slithered into Charlie's otherwise empty thoughts, an intense fear radiated throughout his body. He couldn't see; everything was shrouded in an impenetrable gray light. He had heard his brother's voice. He didn't know where he was, how he got there, or why he was there. A strange place. Strange smells, strange sounds. He felt an oddly hollow sensation all over his body, but a terrible feeling centered about his throat. Anything but hollow, he felt something stuck there, unbearable, uncomfortable. He had not the strength to gag, but the feeling scared him. He wanted to slip back into an unconscious sleep--his body struggled against the powerful drugs that kept him unaware--but his mind fought for answers, his primitive responses to an unknown fear propelling him past the bounds of his endurance.

Don could see the fear playing across Charlie's face, the confusion and terror building slowly in his lethargic eyes. The pulseoxymeter's rhythm threw itself into a rapid accelerando. Charlie's body tensed, his eyes darting as frantically as the medicine would allow, trying to make sense of the pandemonium running rampant through his head. By instinct his breaths ran shallow and close together, ragged with fear. Don fought down his own similar feelings as he watched his brother having nothing short of a panic attack.

Don clutched his hand tighter, seeking out Charlie's eyes. "Charlie, come on. C-Calm down, Charlie. It's okay…"

Charlie's eyes focused on Don but could not see him. He tried to raise his free hand, the fingers clutching at nothing. Suddenly the respirator rushed to life, ushering in a stream of air in hopes to steady Charlie's frantic breaths. The sudden sensation of having a column of oxygen forced down his unsuspecting throat did nothing for Charlie's already frayed consciousness. He tried to gasp but found it impossible; the respirator momentarily stunted any air he tried to take in and forced him to choke over his own breaths, his entire body jerking with the motion, arrows of pain pulsing from his throat as he fought against what had kept him alive for the past three days.

Don stumbled for the nurse call button and jammed it at least half a dozen times with shaking fingers. His other hand, gripped hard against Charlie's own, hardly wavered. Pulling himself away from the call button he leaned in close to his brother, all he could do save taking him in his arms.

"C-Charlie," he began, forcing as much strength into his voice as he could muster. "Charlie, you've got to calm down." One hand sought his brother's uninjured shoulder, where he could feel every tremble of his body. The respirator turned over again and Charlie's lurching began anew.

"Charlie!"

"Donny!"

Don's head whipped around to see his father standing in the doorway, gaping and pale. "Donny, w-what's happening?"

"He's scared, Dad. Y-You've got to help me!"

Alan rushed forward, leaning over both his sons. His immediate concerns for Charlie far overshadowed his initial relief at finding him awake. He sought Charlie's frightened eyes, unaware that his son could not see him.

"Charlie!"

But even his father's voice could not mollify him. Charlie had moved from a world of simply unseeing to total sensual darkness; he saw nothing, heard nothing, and felt nothing but the pain, the intense fear.

Agony clutched at Alan's heart, and only seconds passed before his paternal instincts surfaced. His hand touched down on his youngest son's forehead and caressed the clammy skin, reaching up through the dark and tangled curls. It was a gesture born in childhood, the once thing that could infallibly pacify both his sons no matter how harrowing the circumstances. Stronger than any word he could ever create, Alan hoped that the simple action would work its latent magic and put an ease to Charlie's torture.

Charlie shivered under his father's touch, the action's healing connotation slowly purging his pain, his terror. He became aware, his surroundings slowly coming into focus like images approaching through mist. He could feel his father's touch and his brother's warmth against his hand. They were distant, only remotely beyond his reach, but he could feel them, sense them. And it felt warm, comforting, _safe. _

There father and sons remained in an unchanging body, the minutes passing by unnoticed. Nurse Maple glanced inside, holding her breath at the sight. She debated whether or not to speak, to disturb something so powerful, so sacrosanct.

Alan spoke for her in a voice nothing short of regal. "Everything's all right here, Nurse Maple."

She had not the will to even respond to him, but simply closed the door behind her soundlessly, feeling touched, almost humble. She did not need either of the Eppes men to confirm what she suspected simply from that simple scene; without hesitation she went to page Doctor Meisner.

Alan continued his gentle ministrations without deviation and whispered softly to his son. "Everything's okay now, Charlie. Go back to sleep."

But Charlie's already tired eyes had begun to waver long before. Lids drooped, confident that his father and brother were there and would protect him. He gave into the drugs, slipping no longer into a coma but rather into a dream. A safe and peaceful dream.

As Charlie drifted away, Don spied what looked like the start of tears clinging to his brother's eyelashes, coating them in a vibrant crystalline glaze. And suddenly he fought back tears of his own, of hope and relief that—finally--everything would be all right after all.

_To Be Continued…_


	9. Chapter IX

Here you go! Real life sucked me in and Mea Culpa took a backseat to a backseat's back burner as I tried to get everything sorted out. But finally, things quieted down for a few days and I finished this chapter! Yay!

I have good/bad news. Ready? There is only _one more chapter!_ That's right! One more! It's almost the end here! And what a journey it's been! Stick around, because I promise this final chapter will be up as soon as humanly possible (read: not in a month and a half). If it isn't, I give you permission to throw things at me. Gently.

Many, many thanks to Storyspindler for keeping me in check and putting up with me. Without her, this story would probably be dead. In fact, I know it would.

**CHAPTER IX**

"Donny … what you said yesterday … you still want to go through with it?"

"Yes."

Alan's shoulders slumped. "I still think you're making a mistake."

"I'm not."

"Then … why? Why do this?"

"Because, you don't want him to get hurt again, do you?"

"That's beside the point, Don."

"He doesn't consult, he won't get shot. It makes perfect sense."

"Maybe that does, Don. But not to Charlie. He never thought about the danger. None of that mattered to him. Stopping him from consulting … that would be a disaster, Don. Even if you don't take him out to … crime scenes … you don't have to sever him completely. Don't you know he cares about you?"

"For crying out loud, of course I know that! And I care about him too, that's why I want to do this. I can't be there for him all the time. I … thought I could. But it's for his own good."

"You don't think Charlie can take care of himself, then?"

"Dad! No! It's not that, it's just … I don't want to have to—well, for something like this to hap—"

His father suddenly grabbed at his arm, stifling his words. With his other hand he gestured at the bed. "Charlie," he all but whispered, the words dripping in relief. He reached past Don, his hand coming to rest softly on his youngest son's. "Hi, son."

Don whirled, coming face to face with the depths of Charlie's eyes. A far cry from the emotionless blurs of the night before, Don could sense a spark of his little brother's energy buried deep within them. With the respirator now gone, it seemed almost like a small smile turned up the corners of Charlie's pale lips.

"Hi, Buddy."

Charlie tried to speak, an action that for some reason now seemed so foreign. He managed a sound somewhat of a hybrid between 'Dad' and 'Don,' barely loud enough to be heard. But even such a gentle motion sent needles of searing pain throughout his throat. It bit through even the thick haze of his drugs, causing him to flinch visibly, squinting his eyes shut against the pain.

"Don't try to talk, Charlie," Alan offered, stroking the backside of his son's hand.

"…No."

It was hardly defiant, but the fact that he spoke through the pain at all proved to Alan that his son needed to say something important. To hear his son's voice, even as weak and raspy as it sounded, sent shivers of some mix of relief and joy throughout his entire body.

"…Don."

Don leaned closer, meeting his brother's eyes. "Yeah, Buddy?"

"…Sorry," his lips moved to form the sentence, but only mere snippets of sound passed through. But Charlie's eyes completed what his words could not, sincere and absolute. Charlie then managed a lopsided sort of smile. "…Not your fault."

And those three simple words hit Don like a gunshot to his chest. He gripped the side of Charlie's bed, all he could do save collapsing on the spot.

* * *

Don had no hope of sleeping that night. His restless mind yet again offered no solace. Even pacing had brought him no comfort, so he resigned himself to sitting in the hushed darkness on the living room couch, brooding in a room that offered so much comfort. 

He tried to piece everything together, chaotic memories, blood-spackled and agonizing events burned into every nerve of his body. He clutched a beer can in his nervous hands, cold hours ago, but now only half empty and wholly unappetizing. Disjointed sounds floated in from inside, dark slowly receded to dawn. Don yawned. Every so often his head would droop, his body longing for rest, but his mind would take no such sojourn.

"_Not your fault."_

Everything in Don's mind screamed that yes, it was. Yet everyone—even his brother—defended the opposite. It seemed so childish, but it made absolutely no sense. Don did not know what to think. Every moment he tried to accept that it was not his fault, his mind flashed back to him running fruitlessly toward his brother as he collapsed in a flurry of shattered glass and crimson blood. And then the guilt rushed through his veins, a fierce inner fire. He wanted to forget but could not, guilt and innocence waged war within his heart. Charlie was alive; he was in the hospital; everything would be all right; things may never be the same again; Charlie was strong; he struggled to stay alive; Don should stop blaming himself; but who else was there to blame?; there was nothing he could have done; he did everything wrong; all his fault, not his fault, no one's fault, blame guilt machinery glass blood sniper—

"Don?"

The fire went out.

Don jerked around to find his father, half shrouded in pre-dawn shadows.

"Dad."

"Couldn't sleep?"

"I was—uh, no. No. Not with … all—"

"Thinking too much?"

Alan shuffled to the couch and sat down by his son. Even in the semi-darkness, Don could tell his father had not seen much in the way of sleep, either.

"I guess you could call it that," Don muttered. He crushed the beer can between his hands and, staring at it for a moment as if in disbelief of his own strength, rose to discard it. He returned, standing next to the couch for a few seconds before his exhausted body gave in and he collapsed upon it, scrubbing his hands across his haggard face.

"… Don," Alan began at a whisper. "Tell me… tell me what happened."

Don snapped like a man electrocuted, whipping to face his father with as astounded face as his tired muscles would permit. "W-What?"

"Tell me what happened at the scene. All of it."

"Dad—I-I can't…"

"Oh, damn the protocol, Donny! I'm not asking for complete details of the investigation. I want to know what happened to my sons. What happened to Charlie and to _you._ I want to _help,_ Donny."

Don drew in an elongated breath followed by an equally drawn-out sigh.

"I… we went to Bannotek Towers … saw the sniper's van. We cleared everyone out, but there were uniforms everywhere. We sent out teams to find the Sniper … and David must've shown up. He had Charlie with him. He … didn't know that the Sniper was there. No one had told him. So many uniforms … and I look over and see Charlie … and I just knew it was going to happen, Dad. I tried to call out to him, but then I heard the gunshot … and I was screaming at him, Dad. And I ran… but I… I watched David dive for him. But …" He turned his head away.

Alan remained quiet, offering his son a strong hand on his shoulder, trying not to let the horrid details drive him to his own catharsis.

"There was so much blood. Everywhere. I never knew…never knew someone could…bleed that much. And he didn't make a sound. And I held him in my arms. And it was warm … his blood was warm … but he was so cold. So … pale. Scared the hell out of me. Still does. And I tried to stop the blood, but I had… it was everywhere. All over me, the ground. I couldn't stop it. And I … lost him, in the ambulance. His eyes. Dad, he looked so … dead."

The last word echoed, reverberating against the walls of the room for what seemed like an eternity. It made Don shiver, turned the room twenty degrees colder.

"It was terrible," Don sputtered in an effort to diffuse the horrible feeling.

"Don, listen to yourself. Never once did you mention something you did wrong. Something you _didn't_ do. It sounds like you did everything you could. Everything in your power. Everything that, in that situation, I would do. You did _nothing wrong,_ Don."

Don eyed his father suspiciously.

"What would you have done differently? If something like that had happened again?"

"… I would've… would've taken the bullet for him."

"Which is why you were running. What else?"

"Stopped the sniper first."

"Which is what you were doing at Bannotek Towers in the first place."

"Let him know about the danger…"

"Which is why you called his name."

"Kept him away…"

"You thought it was safe. I didn't protest."

"Damn it, Dad!" Don threw up his arms in desperation.

"You see now, don't you?"

"I might've tried … but I didn't do it well enough. I wasn't fast enough. Loud enough. Smart enough."

"Don, I never asked for you to be perfect. To be fast enough, smart enough, strong enough. What you did saved Charlie's life. It didn't matter that you weren't fast enough or anything. You saved his life all the same. I understand that, and so does Charlie."

Ice crept up from the floor and encased Don's body in a frigid shell.

"I-I …" He sputtered, fighting for words. "I don't know what to think anymore, Dad." He paused. "Maybe … maybe I've been an idiot."

Alan reached out and clasped his son's shoulder. "No, Don. You've been human. And I've never asked for anything else from you. Remember that."

Don laid his head back on the couch, staring at the ceiling.

"You understand now?"

"…Yeah. Yeah, I think I do." Don drew in a shaky breath. "Thanks, Dad."

"… Then, are you still not going to let him consult?"

Don sucked in a breath through his teeth. "I … I don't know. I thought for sure you'd be behind me on this."

"I thought I was, too. But I realized that stopping Charlie from consulting would be like stopping him from doing his math. Impossible. Unhealthy. Now I can't stop you, Don, but please, don't tell him yet. Wait on it. Give yourself some time to think it out. Maybe your mind will change in a few more weeks. This is something too dangerous to decide in just a few days. Just please, think it through."

"And if my opinion hasn't changed?"

"Then… you can go ahead and do what you have to. But don't tell him yet, for your own sake. Please?"

Don licked his lips, deep in thought. "… Okay, Dad." He sighed. "I'll wait."

Alan smiled. "Thank you, Don. Now get some sleep. You need it."

* * *

Charlie's eyes floated between his father and his brother, fighting to make sense of the random spurts of information assaulting his synapses. His last vivid memory was of Bannotek Towers, of an image that seemed so far in the past now, almost beyond his reach. After that was a blank space, a chasm of thoughtlessness that separated past and present. He fought to remember, piecing together fragments of gray thoughts to no avail. 

"D-Don," he gasped, barely audible over the heart monitor at his bedside. His fingers traced along the side of the bed, searching for the warmth he knew had once been there. His eyes settled on Don's fuzzy outline through the drugged haze.

Don drew closer and scooped up his brother's hand, holding it tightly. "Hi, Buddy."

Alan leaned over Don's shoulder and after a moment Charlie smiled at him, something that even now seemed to take all of his strength. "Dad."

Alan returned the gesture not without a tinge of relief in his eyes. "Hi, son."

"… Where…?"

Father and son paused for a moment, exchanging a quiet gaze. Alan placed his hand over both of his sons', looking his youngest straight in his foggy eyes. "You're … you're in the hospital, Charlie."

"… W-What?" Charlie uttered, pausing for a moment to let the definition of said noun register in his sluggish mind. Suddenly his eyes swiveled around the room, putting together the pieces. "… Why?"

"You… you were hurt, Charlie," Alan began. "But don't worry. You're fine now."

Charlie paused to think, eyes drooping, the simple action draining all of his strength. "…S-Sni-Sniper?"

Don and Alan stared at each other, neither knowing what to speak. Alan remained still and did not speak. Charlie stared up at him vacantly, waiting for an answer in vain until his body gave into rest again several minutes later.

* * *

Don found it hard to believe than it had been almost a week. Time seemed so strange and foreign in a place like the ICU with no natural light. Finally free of all machinery but the IV, Charlie was finally able to move from the ICU and into a regular room in the hospital. And none too soon, as Charlie's longer periods of wakefulness brought about a pervasive restlessness that the small room in ICU was almost unable to contain. 

Don was on his was back to Charlie's room when, to his surprise, he found Terry and David waiting by the elevator. He greeted them as if he hadn't seen them in two years, rather than two weeks.

"It's nice to see you, Don. You doing better?"

This was the first Terry had seen of her partner since his hastened trip to the office two weeks before. Though he didn't _look_ any better—in fact, he was in many ways much worse in that department, with thick worry lines across his face and nearly black circles under his eyes—but he had a lighter air than his past self, one of hope and relief rather than despair and brooding. She and David had come to the hospital to check on their partner and his brother—both of whom they had not heard news of in nearly fourteen days.

Don sighed—he'd been doing too much of that lately. "Yeah. It's been a hard two weeks, but I'm getting along."

"Good," Terry continued. "And you father?"

Don smiled. "Oh, that old man's been running circles around me. I just now had to force him to go home because he never sleeps when he's here. His paternal instincts don't have an off-switch."

Terry returned Don's infectious smile. David, standing several paces behind her, remained silent. He dared not look Don in the face. Shame weighed him down.

"And Charlie?" Terry questioned.

"They're going to release him tomorrow afternoon." The way it came out, Don hardly believed it himself.

"Oh Don, that's great! And it's only been what--two weeks?"

"Two weeks too long," Don muttered. The strain of said fortnight showed poignantly in the heavy lines on his face. "He's still not back to a hundred percent yet. Won't be for awhile."

"But at least he'll be home," Terry countered. "That's good. For all of you."

Don sighed. "Yeah. I haven't seen my apartment in who knows how long. Dad's been here every night and day this week until now; I wouldn't be surprised if they boarded the house up by now."

Terry chuckled and Don joined her with a smile. To see her fellow agent in good spirits was in many gratifying, a fragment of the old Don emerging from the stagnant darkness.

"You … wanted to see him? I know he's been wanting to talk to you, David."

David looked up for the first time during the entire conversation. He couldn't speak, merely nodded.

Don laughed, "I bet he's probably tired of seeing nothing by my face, anyway." Don nudged the door open. "Come on in."

Despite his leaps and bounds of medical progress, Charlie looked quite disheveled. Unkempt, unshaven, his face a mess of chiseled lines of pain and stress and weariness, he looked thinner, paler, a shadow of his former self. But even this constrained body could not suppress his vivacious spirit; his bright mind had already sprung back as his body lagged behind.

Presently he leaned over a notebook--his sole salvation swindled from Larry several days before—and scribbled fierce bundles of equations in oblique patterns. His left arm, fully and rather uncomfortably strapped to his body from shoulder to wrist, made even the slightest movement impossible. Since steadying his tablet was out of the question the notebook migrated wildly with every number he scribbled on its pages. The IV still in his hand made his grip on the pencil loose and pained, but his math offered salvation, something he was willing to fight for.

Something he had almost died for.

He did not hear the door open, something not at all surprising, and only when Don stood beside him did his mind take notice. He dropped the pencil from otherwise nerveless fingers.

"David, Terry."

"Charlie," Terry began. "How're you feeling?"

Charlie motioned a shrug with his free hand. "As well as can be expected, I guess."

Terry smiled gently. "That's good. You had us scared for awhile there."

Laughing sent a spiral of pain through Charlie's body. Unable to mask it, he tried to ignore the displeased expression on his brother's face. "Yeah, so Don's told me." Smirking slightly, he added, "many times."

A hush fell over the room, neither party quite sure how to continue the conversation. Terry was about to nudge David, encouraging him to talk, when Charlie spoke up, voicing the one question he had been afraid to ask, the one question he needed to know.

"The Sniper …" he pinched his eyes shut, as if the phrase caused him great pain. "Is he--?"

Terry shot a gaze over her shoulder to Don, unsure how to proceed.

"… He's dead, Charlie," Don offered with a hesitant air.

" … How?"

"Edgerton shot him. Right after …" Don stopped. He could not bring himself to finish the sentence, to relive those memories.

Charlie sighed and closed his eyes, pensive. "If only I had finished those calculations sooner. We could've … found him before this all ever happened."

"Charlie, no!" Terry sputtered.

Even David could not restrain his outcry of indignation.

"Charlie, if anyone's at fault here, it sure as hell isn't you." Don added, looking his brother square in the eyes.

"I know, but… to… die like that." Charlie swallowed hard and shivered. "I wouldn't wish that … on anyone."

"Charlie…" Don faded off, speechless.

A pervasive silence followed. Thick. Almost agonizing. Suffocating.

"… He knew the risks, Charlie." David's voice was no more than a whisper, the only words he had truly spoken since entering the room. "He probably… expected it."

"David," Charlie had almost forgotten the other man's presence. "Don told me … what happened."

David's breath caught in his throat and he turned his eyes away. "Yeah…"

"What you did …if it wasn't for you knocking me down like that, they said the bullet would've … probably killed me. I … I practically owe you my life…"

David sputtered, unable to believe that something he thought of as a failure could possibly bring him merit. "C-Charlie," he sputtered.

"I guess—well … thank you," Charlie offered, succinct yet powerful.

David's mouth hung open. "I … well… you're welcome, Charlie—"

At just that moment, Terry's cell phone rang. She stepped to the side to answer it. After only a few seconds she snapped it shut.

"We've gotta run, David. Duty calls."

David turned to join her.

"You hang in there, Charlie," Terry called as the two headed for the door.

Charlie made a thumbs up, a bright glint in his smile.

"We'll be back tomorrow, Don." David said, clapping his partner on the shoulder.

Don lowered his voice so that only David could hear. "I never blamed you, David. Charlie didn't, either. And we never will."

David nodded. "I know, Don. I thought I didn't. But I do now."

"Good."

Don's infectious smile spread even to Terry who, just from intuition, could detect every word of the conversation. All the pieces had come back. The team was whole again … almost.

David and Terry said their goodbyes and, as the door closed behind them, Don fetched the nurse and another round of medication. Don took the paper cup containing the pills and returned to his brother's bedside.

"The sniper… he probably would have died anyway, Charlie." Don spoke. "It's doubtful that any jury would let him live after what he did."

"You don't know that, Don."

"It's sad to say, but it's true. If Edgerton hadn't taken him down then, who knows who else he would've shot? Killed? We were vulnerable. Would you have wanted someone … someone else to go through … what you went through?"

Charlie shuddered. "…No."

Don sighed. "It sucks sometimes, buddy. I won't argue that."

"That doesn't mean I … can't feel bad about it. To think that I was involved—even indirectly—with a … a person's… death. I mean … that's hard, man."

Don masked the astonished glare in his eyes. Charlie's was a mindset very similar to his own, for eerily similar reasons.

"In many ways, Charlie, I feel the same way."

"You do?"

"Yeah." He sighed, paused for a moment. "…It's something you might never be able to erase, you know? But you move on eventually. You have to. You can't afford to let it dwell on you—too many other people are counting on you to move on…"

Charlie reached out and touched his brother's arm. "You do know I'm not blaming you? For what happened?"

Don smiled. "Yeah, buddy. I know. But that doesn't mean I can't feel bad about it, right?"

It took Charlie a moment, but he smiled. Bright and genuine. "Thanks, Don."

"Yeah, yeah," Don replied with pseudo-sarcasm. He handed Charlie the paper cup. "Now take those meds and get some rest. You've got a big day tomorrow, you know."

* * *

The next morning Charlie was grateful, if anything, to finally have the IV removed. Walking was a chore. Even his short trips around the hospital floor proved to be difficult. Had his brother and father not been supporting him on either side he would have collapsed rather painfully because of his rubbery legs. Even the short trip to the wheelchair—no more than five feet—tired him beyond belief, the pain notwithstanding. He tried to hide it, but it was obvious that the youngest Eppes was nowhere near healed just yet. 

Both David and Terry had come to escort Charlie to his ride and, though he tried to ignore it, he could not help but notice the firearms they both carried in plain view on their belts. Their tone was a subdued one, happy to see Charlie leave this place, but uncertain of what awaited him out there. The Sniper Zero case had been closed, but having come so close to disaster once before, none of them were willing to take chances again.

In the two weeks since Charlie had seen daylight the whole world seemed to have changed. Shedding the sterility of the place he now left behind, everything seemed brighter, meaningful, full of life. Of the life he now had a much deeper appreciation for. The life that had almost been snuffed out.

He saw his brother's SUV, Terry and David's vehicles flanking it in front and behind. And suddenly he realized that, for all his new appreciation for life, he was also well aware of its dangers. Of how a man had aimed a gun at him and fired. Of how, statistically, he was dead. Of the bullet that could come from anywhere and take anyone. Of the bullet that had almost taken him.

_To Be Continued._


	10. Chapter X

And so, my friends, nearly seven months after its conception, _Mea Culpa_ draws to a close. It's been quite a journey, and I've loved every minute of it—I hope you have, too.

There are so many people I must thank, for inspiration, for being a beta, for playing reality check, or for just plain kicking my butt into gear when I felt I couldn't do it any more.

BeckyS, MMarchand, and Xanthia Morgan fall into that last category. Without them, it would have all stopped by Chapter 5. And Luvspook, wherever she went off to. And Afton, my dear Beta #1!

And of course…

Storyspindler. The unsung hero of MC! I owe her more gratitude than words can express. Who knew that a simple request I made months ago could lead to something this great? A story leaps and bounds beyond what I ever thought it could be and a friendship I wouldn't trade for anything in the world. She provided far beyond the medical information she's so good at—she provided inspiration. I'm forever and ever in her debt beyond here and onto eternity. And I want everyone to know everything she's done for this story. That said, I dedicate this chapter to her. Storyspindler, you deserve it.

Enjoy!

**CHAPTER X**

Don shut the door behind him soundlessly and slipped into the darkness of his brother's house. Well past midnight and closer to dawn, he would not have called at this hour had his father not requested he be there. Seven days had passed since the Eppes men put the hospital behind them, and whatever time off from work Don could find he spent with his father and brother. Though work offered him a distraction, he couldn't help but keep Charlie always on his mind. Besides, with Charlie all but incapacitated in anything where two hands was concerned, his journey was not yet over. Alan requested his oldest son be there if not for moral support then to keep his youngest on a short rein. Charlie took his injury and its aftermath as well as could be expected, but the incessant workings of his mind had already healed where his body had not. Making sure his mind adhered to his body's constraints proved to be a great challenge.

Rounding the corner and nearly choking with astonishment, Don's eyes fell on Charlie stretched out on the couch, a blanket pulled up to his shoulders, leaning slightly on his right side. Don's heart leapt to his throat for a fraction of a second—the previous day had seen his father leaving Charlie with a stern warning of absolute bed rest and seeing that the youngest Eppes had strayed from such an order—though by itself not completely inconceivable—was cause for alarm all the same. Don hesitantly approached and, peering over the halo of curls, found Charlie's eyes gently closed. Swinging around the arm of the couch and slipping to his knees Don reached out and gently touched his brother's good shoulder; whether it was to berate him or to check if he was still breathing, Don could not tell.

"Charlie?" No more than a whisper, a gentle shake.

The younger Eppes gave a groan and a gentle twist of his head, much as a small child might do when disturbed. Soon two slits of dark chocolate brown peered back at Don from beneath drooping lids, Charlie's eyes glassy and nearly black in the dim light.

"Hiya, Don." More of a tired, garbled mess than coherent words, Don struggled to hear his brother even in the silence.

Whether out of relief knowing that his brother still breathed, or of sheer horror of finding him there, Don released a sigh that shook his whole body.

"Charlie, what the _hell_ are you doing?"

The ferocity in Don's voice caused Charlie to twitch and instantly his gaze assumed the distant space over Don's right shoulder.

"Don, I-I—well I—ah…"

"What are you trying to do!"

"Don…"

"You're going to send yourself back to the hospital if you don't watch it!"

"Don!" Even with all his breath, the declaration could scarcely be heard.

A deep breath and heavy sigh. "What?"

"I just … I-I … I was w-waiting … for you."

Don's train of thought flipped end over end and a feeling of trepidation squelched his earlier anger.

"… Why?"

Charlie's wandering eyes caught Don's own for a fraction of a second; long enough speak a simple sentence.

"I-I wanted to talk to you."

A second wind of relief rushed out of Don's body. "What a hell of a time to do it, Charlie!" Composing himself with a drawn-out breath, Don added: "about what?"

Charlie took a moment to glance around the room. Suddenly lying on his back became strangely uncomfortable and the desire to see his brother face-to-face propelled him beyond the bounds of normal rational thought. In a moment of bravery—or foolishness—Charlie attempted to push himself into a sitting position, a decision he soon regretted as a torrent of white-hot agony blossomed in his injured shoulder. Hissing much like a wounded animal, Charlie sank back onto the arm of the couch, arching his back against the pain.

Momentarily stunned, Don stumbled over his brother's name before bringing one hand to rest on his brother's right shoulder and the other on his forearm.

"That … didn't work well," Charlie breathed, his face contorted as his fought to flush the pain away.

"Charlie—here," as gently as he could manage—and with the least amount of complaining from his brother, given the circumstances—Don eased his brother into a sitting position. Seeing Charlie's rigid expression and the glassy glare in his eyes, Don gave his brother's arm a reassuring squeeze and silently padded his way into the kitchen. Several moments later he returned bearing a chalky white pill in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Settling next to Charlie on the couch, he offered both these to his brother and watched the younger man with an almost paternal glance as he downed the medication.

"You need anything else?" Don offered.

"No." The frail edge on Charlie's voice was testament to how much his traveling stunt had drained him. "I—thanks, Don."

"No problem, buddy." After a moment he added, "now, what was it you wanted to talk to me about so badly?"

"I—I want to talk to you—about consulting again." The delivery was slow, deliberate.

Don couldn't check a wince of surprise. "How did you know about that?"

He wanted to talk to Charlie about that, but not now.

"…Dad told me."

Don sucked in a lungful of air through his teeth, not from anger at his father, but rather in realization of his own foolishness. He recalled his past actions at the hospital, the conversations with his father Charlie had surely overheard, the promises he had made that he vowed would never be broken.

"Well … boy… did Dad tell you… everything?"

Charlie nodded his head sluggishly.

Don pinched his eyes shut, all he could do to keep from cursing out loud.

"I want to keep consulting, Don."

Don couldn't help shaking his head.

"Why, Charlie? Haven't you had enough of it? I mean, not very many people have the nerve to return to their job after something like what you've been through."

Charlie paused and looked away, calculating his thoughts as thoroughly as he would a math equation. Without warning he suddenly turned back to Don and rushed out in a flurry of words: "For—you. For you, Don."

The stunned silence that followed nearly tore Charlie's heart in twain. He watched his brother's expression change from one of muted concern to a mask of almost disbelief.

"Well—a-and of course, for—for myself too. But—I mean, w-who else would you go to, if not your own brother?" The question's deliverance was as pathetic as it sounded in Charlie's mind.

Don was stunned. If ever he had any doubt of Charlie's good intentions, it was erased in that moment. Never had he been more proud of his brother than in that darkened room in his father's—no, his _brother's_—house, sitting side by side on the same couch they had traded places on continually for the greater part of their lives.

A rare smile lit up Don's entire face, the first of its kind to grace his presence in several weeks.

"To tell you the truth, Charlie—dad and I did some talking. Not to say I over-reacted or anything—because I didn't—but hell, you're almost thirty and though you might need some reminding every once and awhile, you can take care of yourself." Don suddenly felt as if it was no longer just himself speaking, but almost as if his someone else's voice channeled through his ears, guiding his every word. "We've decided—actually, _I've _decided—to let you start consulting again. It's not like I could ever keep you from it in the first place."

Don's earlier grin spread infectiously, if sluggishly, to Charlie's tired face.

"But, but—" Don hastened to control his brother's quicksilver emotions, "I've decided to keep you out of the field, at least for awhile. You won't even be up and around for a few weeks and I'm still going to go easy on you. You've done enough for me already, buddy."

"But—"

"I know what you're going to say. Don't worry about your subject matter. You'll do just fine. After awhile I'll let you go out into the field again—but the first sign of any gunfire and you're out of there, understand? Right now you're an anomaly and I sure as heck want to keep you that way."

The oblique reference conjured a small laugh in Charlie's gut, the tremors of which caused small bits of pain to flare again against his shoulder. He resorted instead to a smile, as wide and bright as he could manage through his now tired and otherwise incoherent brain.

"Don—I—I don't know what to say…"

"Well you can think about it and tell me in the morning, but for right now, you're heading back where you belong, buddy."

Charlie nodded, the pain medication by now taking effect and making his world spin in a drugged haze.

Don clasped his brother's good hand and, placing his other arm against Charlie's back, helped him to his feet. Looping Charlie's right arm across his neck and reaching with his own free arm across the small of his brother's back, Don supported the bulk of Charlie's weight and they moved as one toward the stairs.

"Hey, Charlie."

Taking a moment to clear his mind, Charlie mumbled in return, "yeah, Don?"

"I just have one suggestion for you, you hear?"

"Hmmmm?"

One foot on the bottom-most stair, his brother in his arms and the slowly rising sun peeking through the windows at his back, Don could not have felt more content. Drawing a deep breath, the brothers Eppes began their slow ascent—a journey that would take them far beyond the room located at the top of that staircase, but rather to a summit of understanding and unconditional love no longer shadowed by clouds of uncertainty and regret.

"Next time use a phone or something, okay?"

FIN.

_Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa...  
Non mea culpa est._


End file.
